


The Longest Shadows of Our Past

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Beta Greg, Beta Mycroft, Bigotry & Prejudice, Body Worship, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Friendship, Frottage, Hate Speech, Intercrural Sex, Loss of Trust, M/M, Male Friendship, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Masturbation, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Oral Sex, Overdosing, Past Drug Use, Past Relationship(s), Rape/Non-con References, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Sexual Content, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade was in love once. At least, he thought he was in love once. But that was ten years ago, and he'd long since pushed thoughts of Mycroft Holmes out of his mind. It'd taken a lot longer than it had to remove him from his life, or rather be removed. But that was the past, and now he lived in London, far from the town he grew up in and the vast estate where the strange, fascinating Holmes family lived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **This is not your typical omegaverse story.** While the usual alpha-omega dynamics are brought up, they are not the focus of this story. I wanted to explore more about the hypothetical society that would come with omegaverse. Namely: What would be the taboo relationships, the omegaverse equivalent of homosexuality? And the result was any duo that's typically incompatible for breeding (any same sex betas, two omegas, two alphas, a male alpha/male beta, or female beta/female omega). That's how this version of omegaverse is working anyway.
> 
> This isn't really edited because it's almost 30K and I don't have time to edit fanfiction, let alone fic that long. So apologies and if you get tired of typos I don't blame you for walking away.
> 
> The initial inspiration for this story of past relationship between Greg and Mycroft was "Summer Skin" - Death Cab for Cutie.
> 
> **EDIT:** I should probably also note that liberties are taken with technicalities like police force and shit. I don't know how the fuck that works. Go with it. It's not our universe anyway.

_Greg?_

_Mhm?_

_What are doing?_

_Connecting the dots._

_That better not be permanent marker._

 

Greg allowed himself one last yawn in the empty elevator. It was too early after chasing down what ended up being only a small, peripheral part of a larger narcotics ring. He’d gone to bed at some ungodly hour furious with the world, and being called in after only a few hours’ sleep did his mood no good. He’d already had one coffee, and he held a second in his hand, wondering how long until the caffeine would kick in.

“Says he knows you,” Sally had told him over the phone. She had sounded disgustingly energised, considering she’d been out just as late—or as early—as Greg had been.

Greg had expected to see one of the four faces they’d incarcerated last night sitting in his cramped office at the Yard. But the scent of an omega threw off that assumption before he even opened the door. Furthermore, it was vaguely familiar.

He was met with the sight of dark brown curls peaking over the back of the chair facing his desk. The rest of the slouched figure was invisible until he closed the door and circled to his own seat. He paused before he had even sat down, shaken by the young man sleeping in his office.

He cleared his throat, and the twenty-five-year-old stirred lazily. “I was not expecting you,” he muttered as he flipped through the folder Sally had left on his desk. Multiple arrests on grounds of possession dating back to sixteen, no counts of intent to sell, vandalising public property, public disturbances, assault. All of it amounting to nothing more than a few scattered nights behind bars. It was clear someone else had a hand in this, and it wasn’t hard to guess who.

“Of course you weren’t,” Sherlock said testily.

“I can see you’ve made a right mess of your life.” He closed the file and folded his hands over it. “Why did you ask to see me?”

Sherlock yawned. “This chair is a lot more comfortable than the sheets of metal you call beds downstairs.”

“Good nap then? I’ll call you an escort then.” He picked up the phone, only to have Sherlock lean forward and slam his fingers on the switchhook.

“Let’s skip the part where the paperwork gets processed,” he said, glowering at Greg with an intensity in his silver eyes that had always been there and was still unnerving, “only to be immediately stuffed away because my brother can’t keep his fat fingers out of my life and deems it necessary to ‘rescue’ me from prison.”

“And what do you suggest I do?” Greg refused to put the phone down.

“Let me walk out the front door unmolested by Yarders or overbearing siblings.”

“Mhm, I see your logic.” He pushed Sherlock’s hand away and rang for an officer.

Sherlock scowled from his chair. “When did you become such a prat?”

Greg ignored the bait and picked up his coffee cup.

“You’re not even a halfway decent narcotics detective.”

“Made lots of friends before I took this position, did you?”

“Being better than imbeciles doesn’t make you anything more than the least imbecilic. It’s really just relative.”

Greg put his cup down and gave Sherlock a cold look. “I know you’ve always liked to consider yourself a genius, but it’s hard to believe it when you’ve been taking enough recreational drugs in the last seven years to land you in prison more than once. If it wasn’t for your brother, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

“You can’t even say his name.”

“What?”

Sherlock smiled, his lips pale and thin. “You’re really still so heartbroken after ten years that you can’t even say his name?”

Greg caught himself staring far too long. “I haven’t forgot your little mind games, Sherlock. I see some things never change.” There was a knock at the door and Greg snapped for the officer to enter. “Yes, there seems to have been a mistake. You can begin processing Mr. Holmes, thank you.”

Sherlock stood up, stretching his arms and neck like a cat. “When you want to make a real dent in that drug ring, come visit me.” He strode out ahead of the officer, hands stuffed in his pockets, his entire being singing nonchalance.

 

_People don’t like us being together._

_Fuck them._

_Says the one with the black eye and four stitches._

_I don’t care._

_I do._

_It’s fine._

_No it’s not._

_Yes, it is._

_How can you say that?_

_Because as long as it’s me and not you, Greg, it’s fine._

 

Greg held out a solid six and a half weeks before looking up Sherlock’s address. The place was a dump in the middle of a trash heap. And a basement flat to boot. He did his best to dress down, but he had the sneaking suspicion that the neighbourhood’s inhabitants could smell the police a mile away. Or maybe they looked at every stranger like they looked at him.

“You’ll get your bloody rent, you putrid-” the door swung open and a ragged Sherlock stopped yelling as soon as he saw Greg. “Oh.” He turned around and slunk back into the flat, leaving the door open.

“Lovely place,” Greg muttered as he shut it behind him.

“I’m impressed,” Sherlock called from around the corner.

“Why’s that?”

“I was expecting to see you a month ago.”

Greg found Sherlock in a dingy kitchen little bigger than a broom closet, seated at a table, crouched over a microscope. The sleeves of his ratty dressing gown were rolled up above his elbows, reveal several nicotine patches. “Christ.” Greg grabbed his arm unthinkingly. “You’re going to get yourself hospitalised with all of these.”

Sherlock pulled his arm back with a scowl. “They help me think.”

“Sure they do.”

“I really don’t care if you wish to criticise and judge me, but please do it silently so I can focus.”

“What are you focusing on anyway?”

“Soil samples.”

“Dirt?”

“From various parts of London, composed of different materials and chemical-”

“Forget I asked.”

Sherlock looked up from the slide. “You call yourself a detective? Shameful.”

“It’s dirt.”

“Variations in material and chemical composition can narrow a search to within a radius of a couple miles. Compiled with other various data, location can be pinpointed to a few blocks, possibly less. For example, ‘detective,’ knowing that all four of those men you apprehended a month and a half ago had soil samples containing trace deposits of soil found only in a northwest area of the city narrows your search down considerably.”

Greg gaped. He couldn’t help it. “How did you even get samples?”

Sherlock waved the question away. “Unimportant. The man you most likely looking for is Terrence Lowell. I believe you’ve heard of him.”

“He’s been a suspect for a while now, but we don’t have anything solid enough to bring him in. The dirt on his lackeys’ shoes is hardly substantial evidence.”

“Ridiculous. What exactly would your superiors accept as substantial evidence then?”

Greg started listing some examples, half distracted by the veritable gears turning behind Sherlock’s brow.

“Perfect!” Sherlock cried, jumping up and dashing out of the flat.

Greg was so focused on keeping up with him, he wasn’t even sure which suggestion had prompted Sherlock’s reaction. 

 

_What are you doing?_

_Swinging._

_You’re twenty-five._

_And it’s been far too long since I was on a swing._

_You’re ridiculous._

_That’s why you love me._

 

When one of Greg’s mates from the academy rang him up to tell him Sherlock was being admitted to St. Thomas’, he didn’t hesitate to leave the office. It took over half an hour by cab to read the hospital, and another ten minutes to hunt down Sherlock’s room once he was there.

“Greg, over here.”

He looked up, grateful to find his friend’s face down the corridor. “Julie. Is he okay?”

“Roughed up. Bruises mostly. Nothing broken. He’s in talking with a psychiatrist right now.”

“Psychiatrist?” Greg’s stomach twisted. “He wasn’t-”

“Attempted.” Julie grimaced. “I wanted to ask you about something. Look at this.” She pulled the chart from the clip by Sherlock’s door and flipped it open. She pointed to a note at the bottom in large type: IF ARRESTED OR ADMITTED TO A HOSPITAL, CALL AT ONCE. “That’s a Whitehall number isn’t it?”

“Think so,” Greg muttered, glancing at the door.

“It shows up on our system, too. Any idea-”

“HE TRIED TO RAPE ME YOU SORRY FUCKING EXCUSE FOR A MENTAL HEALTH PROFESSIONAL.”

There was a bang of something hitting the door, quickly followed by a doctor scurrying from the room.

“Ah, officer,” he said, clearing his throat. He looked warily at Greg. “And you are?”

“Detect-”

“Family friend,” he interrupted. “I’ve known Sherlock since he was a kid. Can you tell me what happened, doctor?”

“Mr. Holmes was picked up by an ambulance approximately ninety minutes ago. A bystander called 999 when they saw him limping on the street. Supposedly, Mr. Holmes was attempting to obtain heat suppressants, and claims his dealer sold him a predator drug instead. Mr. Holmes ingested the substance immediately, and claims to have been subsequently assaulted by his dealer.”

Greg didn’t like the doctor’s sceptical tone. “Something wrong with that story?”

“The hospital admitted another patient about ten minutes before Mr. Holmes was brought in. This man, whose injuries are far more extensive and serious, gave a description of his attacker that strikingly resembles Mr. Holmes, as Mr. Holmes’ description of his resembles the other patient. The other patient also has traces of benzodiazepines in his system, albeit of a smaller amount.”

Greg crossed his arms. “So you’re implying that Sherlock is lying about his attempted rape.”

The doctor visible straightened his posture and raised his chin. “I am implying no such thing, sir. However, it is necessary to remain objective in these situations, especially when the validity of one story is brought into question.”

“Listen here,” Greg said, leaning forward. “I have known that guy since he was fourteen. He has always—always—despised being an omega. He hates his heats, hates being at the whim of his hormones. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was still a virgin.”

“All due respect, sir, the likelihood of a twenty-six-year-old omega, especially a male omega, still being-”

“And Sherlock Holmes is one of the most unlikely human beings you will ever meet. So kindly take this nice officer down to whatever room that son of a bitch is in, and allow her to put him under arrest.” He stood up and waited, refusing to remove his gaze from the man.

“Doctor?” Julie said with polite formality.

“Er, this way.”

Julie passed Greg a smile once the doctor was in front of her before following after.

Greg tapped at the door before opening it. “Alright?” The room was dark—lights off, blinds closed as shut as they could be. 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock snarled from his hospital bed.

“Julie’s a friend. She let me know you were here.”

“Close the door. It’s too bloody bright out there.”

“Right, sorry.” He shut it tight and searched half-blind for a chair.

“To your left,” Sherlock snapped. His usual impatience with people was multiplied tenfold in this state.

“How are- Sorry,” Greg interrupted himself. “Stupid question.”

“I expect little else.”

“Uh huh. So that guy was a prick.”

“You would think that by the twenty-first century, society would have progressed past the stigma suggesting all in-heat omegas are aggressive whores.”

“You’d think,” Greg murmured.

“At least I know you don’t care for societal norms.” Sherlock’s tone was bitter, but his words were strangely warming.

“Have you ever tried getting heat suppressants legally?”

“Of course. Last year, as soon as I was eligible. But I’m a young, healthy omega,” Sherlock seethed, “why could I possibly want to suppress my heats?”

“Sorry.”

“Forget it.”

There was no precursor to the door being flung open, fluorescent light from the hall streaming into the room. Sherlock hissed and threw a hand over his face.

The door was slammed shut, and now there was a third occupant in the room, who proceeded to shout at the patient, “You foolish child! What in god’s name-”

Greg’s chair scraped across the floor as he stood up. The man on the other side of Sherlock’s bed looked up, just noticing his presence. He flipped on the light.

“Gregory.” Years of practice at masking emotions and reactions couldn’t completely hide the surprise in Mycroft’s voice.

Greg nodded dumbly, staring openly at Mycroft. His frame, once gangly awkward, had filled out. His ginger hair had lightened and thinned, but not yet begun to grey. He was far paler than he used to be, indicative of a career holed up in Whitehall. He wore a perfectly fitted suit, an umbrella gripped in one hand, gold watch chain still swinging against his waistcoat from the kinetic energy of his entrance.

There was no clear way around Mycroft to the door. Greg wondered in the back of his mind as to the durability of the room’s windows.

“What are you doing here?” Mycroft said. It sounded far more accusing than he probably intended.

“Mate of mine on the force called me up. Just wanted to make sure Sherlock was okay.”

“Yes, Greg here was simply expressing concern. Did you know, Mycroft, that concern from another is a far more pleasant experience than having a lecture after being drugged and nearly raped? Fascinating, isn’t it?”

“I’ll leave.” Greg slowly circled the bed.

“I think that would be best,” Mycroft said quietly, stepping clear out of the way.

It shouldn’t have hurt, certainly not after a decade, but it still did. It still hurt like hell.

 

_Whitehall?_

_Yes._

_You haven’t even finished your degree yet, let alone taken the bar exam._

_I will complete my degree in London. It’s hardly a challenging one._

_I guess not, for you._

_Why are you angry?_

_Why am I- Have you even thought about us in all of this? I can’t just pick up and go to London on a whim._

_It’s not a whim._

_Not. The. Point._

_The point you’re making is moot._

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

_Don’t fool yourself, Greg. You can’t believe this was ever going to last._

_I-_

_Two male betas? Be realistic. It was enjoyable, but it was always impermanent._

 

Greg’s mobile vibrated in his desk drawer. He took the blessed break from paperwork and pulled it out.

_Bored. SH_

_Sorry?_

_Working on a case? SH_

_No. Just had one pulled over to homicide. OD now suspected murder._

_Pity. You would do better there. SH_

_Homicide?_

_Yes. SH_

_What makes you say that?_

_Ever done anything more exciting than smoke pot at uni? SH_

Greg rolled his eyes. _No. But I haven’t killed anyone either._

_Irrelevant. Violence is part of human nature. Opiates are not. SH_

_You’re not on any opiates right now, are you?_

_No. As I said, I’m bored. SH_

_And I’m here to entertain you, am I?_

_I was hoping you would have an interesting case I could think about. SH_

_Sorry to disappoint._

After a minute of no further replies, Greg turned begrudgingly back to the stack of paperwork. Not five minutes in, the screen of his mobile lit up as it vibrated on his desk.

_Tell me about the case. SH_

_Seemed to be your basic OD until an anonymous tip suggested otherwise._

_Anonymous tips are never truly anonymous. SH_

_They’re looking into that._

_Then your anonymous tip is lucky. SH_

_Meaning?_

_She has only the Met to worry about. SH_

_‘She’?_

_Check your e-mail. Is this the victim? SH_

Greg pulled his keyboard and mouse forward and pulled up his inbox. The newest message had a link to a news article dating back three months. The man in question had been released from jail after serving eight years for possession and a smaller charge for supplying.

_How’d you figure it out?_

_He was my attempted rapist last week. SH_

Greg stared at the text, the words searing into his mind. He took a deep breath before slowly typing his reply, _You know this means I have to bring you in. You’re a suspect now._

_Hardly. Did you finish reading the article? SH_

With a grimace, he put aside his mobile and carefully combed the page. The picture showed a woman greeting him outside the prison, arms wrapped around his neck, lips pressed against his cheek. It was absurdly posed. Aside from a name, a mention that she had been the patient girlfriend waiting for her poor bloke’s release, there was nothing suggestive.

_Alright, and?_

_She left him ten days ago due to infidelity. He acquired a taste for anal sex during his time in prison. Obviously not with any omega males, as mixing omegas with betas and alphas is prohibited, but after his release he began catering his practices to omegas, namely omegas in heat. Thus, dealing black market heat suppressants. While plenty of omega females also have a desire to suppress their heats, it is statistically more common in omega males. SH_

_So… the ex?_

_Think! SH_

_Alright, one of his victims._

_Shall I hold your hand through the entire deduction process? SH_

Greg typed out a snarky retort, but erased it before he sent it. He brought up what information he could on the supposed serial rapist and read through every line twice. It wasn’t much to go on. So he pocketed his mobile and went to the elevator.

Julie was in her office, working on her own load of files. He rapped his knuckles on the doorframe.

“Greg! Come in. How’s your friend?”

“Oh, just fine. Back to being an annoying prick.” He smiled and sat in the chair next to her desk. “Can I ask you a question? About your recent cases? General question.”

She leaned back and stretched her arms. “I guess, sure.”

“In the last few months—two or three, let’s say—how many of your vics were like Sherlock? Looking for heat suppressants and getting dealt benzos instead.”

Julie frowned. “You know, I’m not sure, but is has seemed like an awful lot now that you have me thinking.”

“Estimate?”

“A dozen at least? Seems like there’s one or two a week.”

“Mostly men?”

Julie’s brow creased further. “Actually, yeah. How-”

“Thanks.” Greg had his phone out of his pocket as soon as was through the door, but another question struck him before he got further. He leaned back into the office. “Julie, how many have conceived?”

“Three or four I’d say. Greg, what are you up to?”

“Could you e-mail me their names? Cheers.”

_I’ll have a list of three or four names in a few minutes._

_Bravo, Detective. Bravo. SH_

_No need for patronising me. I was there when you had your first hangover._

_Blackmail is shady business, Greg. SH_

Greg smiled and pocketed his mobile. Julie’s list was waiting in his inbox by the time he was back at his desk.

 

_Do you remember the first time we met?_

_Excessive sentimentality is not going to change anything._

_Busted my knee open right outside your house. I refused to cry, not in front of another guy, especially a younger one. I knew I didn’t want you to see, that I’d be mortified if you did._

_The point to this trip down nostalgia lane?_

_Look at me, Myc. This time, I want you to see._

Greg wasn’t sure if Sherlock looked or smelled worse when he opened the door. “Christ, you need a shower.” 

“What do you want, Greg?” 

He held up the six pack in his hand. 

“I don’t drink.” 

“One hangover too much?” 

“While avoiding those is an added benefit, it’s not the primary reason.” 

Greg pushed past him into the flat. “But you’ll decorate your arms with nicotine patches and dope yourself up no problem?” 

“Again, you incorrectly assume the reasoning behind either. But please, come in,” he retorted dryly and closed the door. 

“They caught the guy.” 

“Not entirely incapable then, the good ole men and women of Scotland Yard.” 

“I owe you. Well, we owe you.” 

Sherlock levelled him with a look. “You told them I helped?” 

“Er, no. You’re too closely involved; you’d be brought in for questioning even though the guy confessed.” 

“I care less about that than I do about the tedious process of formalities and paperwork.” 

“I don’t blame you there.” Greg smiled. “So much for my thank you gift, though.” He hefted the six pack. 

“By all means, drink.” He wandered off to the back of the apartment. 

“Where are you going then?” 

“Shower.” 

Greg set the case on the counter, the only place he could find any room. Last time he was there it was cluttered; this time it was plain filthy, well beyond the permanent grime of the dump. Sherlock’s culture dishes and slides lay abandoned, some overgrown with mould. The sink was filled with used dishes; there were only a few, but Greg had a suspicion that they were all Sherlock owned. He made the mistake of opening the fridge, only to slam it shut before discovering what was the cause of the putrid smell within. 

The living room was in the same shape, though with less growth. Half empty takeaway boxes on the floor and coffee table, dirty blankets bunched on the sofa. He knew omegas had a tendency to nest when they were in heat, but he didn’t think many of them were this unhygienic about it. 

Sherlock emerged looking no worse for the wear, wet curls flat against his skull and neck. At least his clothes seemed moderately clean. 

“You really should get out of this place.” 

“Because nice flats in London are so affordable.” 

“If you need help-” 

“No,” Sherlock snapped. He curbed his aggression, though, adding, “Besides, you wouldn’t want Mycroft to know you were helping me out.” 

Greg shifted his weight. “So what if he knows?” 

Sherlock arched a brow and smiled faintly. “Regardless, I don’t care for favours. Certainly not from you.” 

Greg shrugged. “Tell me if you change your mind.” He finally grabbed a beer and went into the living room. 

Sherlock followed him, gaze briefly sweeping across his mess. 

“So, how long had you been tracking the guy?” 

“Hm?” 

“The rapist.” 

“I hadn’t been tracking him at all. He was a dealer known to my acquaintances.” 

“But you connected the dots. That had to have taken time.” 

“Hardly. I managed it through the duration of our conversation.” 

“You’re kidding me.” 

“Why would I?” 

Greg pulled out his mobile and scrolled through his texts, checking the time stamps. “It took me longer to walk to Julie’s office than it must have for you to figure all of that out.” 

Sherlock smirked. “Why are you so surprised, Greg? You know how Mycroft and I are.” 

“Yeah, but- Christ.” He took a draught from his bottle and sat back. “You were a smart kid, but this is incredible.” 

Sherlock seated himself lightly on the edge of the other side of the sofa. He brow knitted in thought, fingers steepled together and pressed against his lips for a moment. “That’s the reason.” 

“Huh?” 

“For the nicotine patches, the narcotics. It’s quite overwhelming at times.” 

“Being a genius?” 

“Seeing everything, every detail of people’s lives, the history of a particular car or building with one look. And doing nothing. It’s dreadfully boring, and quite painful.” 

Greg leaned forward. “I don’t think I understand.” 

“I wouldn’t expect you to. I don’t think even Mycroft understands. How he manages to cope with such mundane living is baffling.” 

“So, what, the drugs slow you down?” 

Sherlock turned his head and grinned at him. “Precisely. See? You’re not a complete imbecile after all.” 

“Cheers.” 

“You figured out the murder.” 

“Only after I had my nose shoved in the right path.” 

“Still, far better job than the homicide detectives. They would have wasted time taking me in for questioning.” 

Greg shrugged. “To be fair, they don’t know you.” 

“And what a genius I am?” 

“And what an insufferable prat you are, but even on your worst days you could only manage a mild maiming of another person.” 

Sherlock chuckled. “I always did like your sense of humour.” 

“Did you? I always thought you found me annoying.” 

“Oh, most of the time I did. But it was generally because of how unbearably sentimental you and Mycroft were with each other.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed over to him. “Though maybe I shouldn’t mention that.” 

“Ten years, like you said. We’re not kids anymore.” 

“No, I suppose we’re not.” He shoved his hand into the pile of blankets and fished out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. 

Greg took the offered fag and raised his bottle in a silent toast. He couldn’t be sure what it was for, but it felt like having a Holmes in his life again was about to change things in a big way. 


	2. Chapter 2

Greg wasn’t sure how a man who subsisted on barely a full meal, two-to-four hours’ sleep, and a pack-and-a-half of cigarettes every forty-eight hours was able to outrun him, but Sherlock was doing just that. And they were damned lucky, since their suspect apparently knew every dark corner and tight alley this side of the river.

Then again, even that meagre substance was more than Sherlock had been used to two years ago when he showed up in Greg’s old office at the Met. Greg had even managed to shuffle him out of the wreck he called a flat six months ago. His new accommodations were just as small and stark, but they were at least moderately clean and in a slightly less questionable part of the city. Still a basement, though, something Greg never heard the end of as it seemed the damp frequently affected Sherlock’s cultures for the worse. Not that Greg had the slightest idea what Sherlock was on about when he went into his tangents about his experiments.

“—apprehended. Repeat, suspect has been apprehended,” Sally’s voice crackled over the handheld.

“We got him!” Greg called after Sherlock. He rounded the last corner he’d seen Sherlock disappear around and nearly ran into his back.

“No, we didn’t.”

Greg looked past Sherlock to see the black cars, suits, and their suspect being put into a backseat. “SIS?”

“It seems Mr. Harper’s dealings were beyond the local level.”

Off to the side, arms folded across her chest, was Greg’s sour-looking sergeant. He covered the distance between them and leaned close to her. “When did they show up?”

“Couldn’t have been more than two minutes ago, sir.”

“Have they said anything yet?”

“Only enough to verify their IDs and office.”

“Fantastic,” Greg sighed. “They taking orders from anyone?”

“Him.” Sally nodded and pointed to the back of one individual, whose suit was dark grey rather than black, an umbrella hooked over his forearm. “And it looks like we’re going to need some intervention.”

“Huh?”

“Your ‘friend’ is about to get himself in trouble.” Sally pointed toward the alley from which Greg had just emerged. Sherlock was stalking straight for Mycroft.

“Christ.”

“I know he’s bright, Lestrade, but-”

He ignored her and made his way to intercept. He wouldn’t make in time without making a scene, though, and by the time he did reach the brothers, they were already in a verbal sparring match.

“Gaining weight, Mycroft?” Sherlock jeered. “That new diet is pointless you know. It’s only going to foul your breath even further.”

“Tell me, Sherlock, what are you doing lurking about an official investigation?”

“That’s my fault,” Greg interrupted, sounding not at all apologetic.

Mycroft’s eyes alighted on him with vague curiosity, though it was obvious to all three of them there was a lot going unsaid there. Not that any of them would point it out so blatantly.

“Asked him to lend a hand, or rather a brain.”

“Yes, you might have noticed,” Sherlock jibed, “the police force is in short supply of those. As is MI6 I imagine.”

Mycroft ignored his brother’s comment and continued to look steadily at Greg. “Detective Inspector now, is it?”

“It is. I assume you have paperwork you’ll want us to fill out?”

Mycroft blinked, which was quite the reaction coming from a Holmes who was doing his best to hide any and all emotion. “Your assumption would be correct. My assistant has already faxed the more detailed papers to your office. However, as the officer in charge of this case, I will require that you sign a few things here and now.”

“Of course.”

“Anthea.”

A young woman appeared at the beckons, long brown hair tied in a ponytail. There was still an awkwardness about her, which gave Greg the impression that she was new to this job.

“The paperwork for the Detective Inspector.”

“Yes, of course, sir.” She shuffled one-handed through a briefcase held in her other arm and pulled out a clipboard ready to go.

Mycroft gave an irritated sigh and snatched it from her, in turn thrusting it at Greg.

Greg made a show of skimming through the paragraphs before signing and handing the clipboard back over. “He’ll make a go for it if he thinks he’s even got a chance of escape,” Greg cautioned. “Gave a few of my guys black eyes and bloody noses last time.”

“And managed to achieve that escape,” Mycroft commented mildly.

Greg scowled, but he didn’t verbalize his anger. “Right. Have fun with him.” He turned on his heel and marched back to his officers. “Alright, back home. There’s some fancy MI6 papers for all of us to fill out when we get there.”

There were a few groans as his officers, who had been waiting for orders on how to proceed, climbed back into their cars.

“Need a lift?” he said to Sherlock, who was still watching Mycroft from the corner of his eye. Mycroft, however, seemed engrossed in a lecture he was giving his assistant.

“No,” Sherlock muttered and took off down the street, pulling his jacket tight about him. A needless gesture in July.

“He’ll need to sign the papers, too,” Sally informed curtly from the passenger seat after Greg had climbed into the car.

Greg chuckled. “Trust me, even if Sherlock wanted to talk about this, a piece of paper wouldn’t stop him.”

“He might.”

“Might what?”

“Talk about it.”

“To whom, exactly?”

“On his website.”

Greg passed her a curious look. “He’s got a website?”

“Didn’t you know? The Science of Deduction, that’s what he’s calling it. He’s dubbed himself ‘the world’s only consulting detective.’”

“What the hell is a ‘consulting detective’?”

“Ask him” Sally said with a shrug. “Seems like his normal arrogance, only now it’s gone online.”

“Bloody marvellous,” Greg growled and pulled out onto the road.

 

Sherlock opened the door in his pyjamas and a tattered dress robe when Greg came around at tea the next day.

Greg gave him a onceover. “Have you been out since-”

“No, and don’t ask stupid questions.” Sherlock turned on his heel and Greg followed him into the flat.

“Christ, how much have you been smoking?” He covered his nose at the strong stench of fresh and stale tobacco smoke mingling in the kitchen.

“Research,” Sherlock replied by way of an answer. That probably meant Greg didn’t want to know just how much.

“Have you eaten anything?”

Sherlock plopped down in front of his microscope. “Hm?”

Greg dropped the bag of takeaway on the table, receiving a glare from Sherlock. “Eat.”

“Are you my nanny now?”

“No, I’m your friend, and you’re a dick who won’t look after himself. So eat.” Greg retrieved his own box and plasticware and strolled into the sitting room. A few minutes later, a reluctant Sherlock joined him.

“This is unnecessary.”

“Food? No, it’s quite necessary.”

“You.” Sherlock scowled. “Coddling me like a helpless child.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Greg sighed. “If there is one thing I’ve learned about you in the thirteen years I’ve known you, you are a helpless child.” He shovelled a forkful of curry into his mouth, instantly regretting his fervour.

Sherlock smirked and sat next to him on the sofa.

Once Greg made sure Sherlock was eating, and had caught his breath, he broached the topic of the website. “Found your blog.”

“It’s not a blog,” Sherlock snapped.

“Whatever it is. What do you plan to put on it?”

“I thought it rather obvious.”

“So you will be writing up cases?”

“Interesting ones, yes.”

Greg ran a hand through is hair. “You can’t, Sherlock. I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

Sherlock raised a brow at him. “I don’t see how it’s any different than the papers reporting.”

“The papers don’t detail our every step.” He added under his breath, “or call us idiots throughout.”

He felt Sherlock’s gaze on him and, sure enough, when he looked up, Sherlock was studying him—deducing him.

“This isn’t about the website,” Sherlock said. “Certainly not about your feelings regarding it.”

“It’s a safety measure. Especially when it comes to open cases. Or ones like today, where public safety or national security is involved.”

“This is about Mycroft.”

Greg straightened his back. “What? No it’s- How is this any way about Mycroft? It might as well have been any suit yesterday.”

“I thought you were done trying to impress him,” Sherlock said coldly.

“This isn’t about him,” Greg growled. “Stop dodging this, Sherlock. Take down the case write-ups.”

“If Mycroft really cared about what I put on my website, he would take it down himself.”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock, this isn’t about him!”

Sherlock leaned back into the sofa. “Of course it isn’t. But the fact that you have become incredibly defensive toward the suggestion it might be suggests you continue to lie to yourself about your feelings toward him.”

Greg blinked. “What the hell are you on about?”

“Your adamant and quite vocal denial was-”

“Are you just fucking with me now? What are you trying to prove?”

“You retain an emotional attachment to Mycroft.” Sherlock spoke so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that it only fuelled Greg’s anger.

“I really don’t,” he sneered.

“The sooner you admit it, the sooner it will stop clouding your judgement.”

“My judgement is just fine.”

“On the contrary, had ‘the suit’ been anyone but Mycroft, you would have reacted very differently.”

“So would you.”

“I was not the senior officer on the scene.”

“This is ridiculous.” Greg got up and snatched up his coat. “You’re bored, so you’re goading me into a fight to amuse yourself.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and brought his steepled fingertips to his chin. “Mm, perhaps.”

“Prick.” Greg muttered and slammed the door on his way out.

It wasn’t until that evening, as he was dozing off in bed, that he realised what Sherlock had done. He snatched his mobile from his nightstand.

_Take down the case write-ups._

A second later, he sighed to himself and picked up his phone again.

_At least run them by me first. Let me at least give the OK before you post anything._

He waited for a reply, but none came. Sleep at last dragged him away from his anxious waiting and watching for the screen to light up.

 

For the past couple years, Greg and Sherlock had fallen into a routine when Sherlock went into heat. It was never planned, and it had smoothed out over time. It always started with a text.

_Out of fags. SH_

Greg would call into the office—his reasons varied each time, from migraines and flu to family emergency out of town—and swing by Tesco before arrive at Sherlock’s flat with groceries in one hand and an overnight bag in the other.

Where he found Sherlock each time he arrived was as varied as his excuses to get out of work. Once he found him completely alert and pacing; another Sherlock was submerged in an ice bath and it was a miracle he didn’t come down with pneumonia or hypothermia.

This time it was curled up on the sofa, lights off, thick blankets pulled over his head. The place still smelled of tobacco smoke, only now it was just the stale kind, and now it was mixed with oestrus.

Greg put up the groceries first. Then he went over to the pile on the sofa and shook Sherlock’s shoulder. “Shower.”

A shower always helped clear Sherlock’s mind during his heat, at least a little.

Sherlock groaned and barely moved.

“I will drag you bodily into the bathroom if I have to.” He would, he had.

Sherlock threw off the blankets and stomped off—bare-arse naked—to the bathroom. It wasn’t the first time Greg had seen him nude. Though the first time had been a bit of a shock, Greg had quickly remind himself that it was Sherlock, and Sherlock in heat at that, and there was likely to be even less in the way of social niceties during these times.

Greg waited until he heard the shower go on before cleaning up the sofa. He went down the hall to the communal washer and stuffed the blankets in.

Sherlock was more unpredictable than usual when his body was going through oestrus. He would swing from acerbic to practically humane in seconds. Most of the time he would remain locked in his room, though. But Greg checked on him every few hours, and that’s when anything from kindness to swearing would start up. Once, only once, Greg had gone to check on him and heard him crying through the door. He left Sherlock alone then.

Except for a few moments of escape Greg needed, sometimes because of Sherlock’s abuse, sometimes because of the oestrus—he might not have been an alpha, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t wholly unaffected—the four-to-eight days would pass quickly. They never really talked about it. Whether or not Sherlock’s initial text was meant as code because he’d be damned if he were to outright ask for help, or it was happenstance that Greg took it upon himself to look after him during his heat, was never certain. But Greg wasn’t about to let Sherlock go down the same self-destructive path that nearly got him raped two years prior.

But this quarterly round brought an entirely new experience.

On the third morning of Greg sleeping on Sherlock’s sofa, he woke when a weight pressed down on his torso.

“Bloody hell,” he groaned when he realised Sherlock had seated himself on top of him.

Sherlock’s hands spread across his chest, pressing down, his arse rocking back-

“What the fuck, Sherlock?” Greg was wide awake now. He grabbed Sherlock’s arms and tried to push him off, but Sherlock only pushed his hands harder into his chest. Greg could’ve thrown him if he put his full weight into it, but wanted to avoid injury to either of them. He took a deep breath and said as calmly as he could manage, “Go back to bed. Or take a shower.”

Sherlock, of course, completely ignored these suggestions. Instead, he folded himself over Greg and whispered into his ear, “Do you want to fuck me, Greg?”

“No,” Greg said, pushing Sherlock out of his face. “Now get off me.”

“Are you sure?” He said each word with a rock to his body. “The currently changing state of your cock suggests otherwise.”

Greg sucked in and closed his eyes. “You, of all people, should know the body isn’t everything, that the body can react on its own. Without the conscious mind’s consent.”

Sherlock leaned over him again, this time only whispering one word, “Dull.” He rolled off and stumbled away to the shower.

For what felt like several minutes, Greg focused on his breathing, willing away the partial erection in his pants and the damp spot left by Sherlock’s natural lubricant. Once the shower went off and Sherlock’s bedroom door slammed shut, Greg dove for the shower.

 

Neither of them brought up the incident. The closest they came was three days later on what happened to be the last day of Sherlock’s oestrus, as his hormones were beginning to level out.

Greg was reading while Sherlock sat curled up at the other end of the sofa with his knees under his chin and his eyes glazed over.

Sherlock asked one of his typically blunt questions, “Have you fucked anyone since Mycroft?”

Greg looked over the edge of his book. Sherlock wasn’t look at him, or at least not directly. “Yes.”

“Incompatibles?”

Greg took a moment before answering that one. “Once. A couple years ago. Didn’t work out.”

He expected more questions: how long, whether it was another beta male, and so one. But Sherlock lapsed back into silence, and after a while Greg returned to his book.

The next morning, Greg packed his bag and returned to his flat. Sherlock was already at his microscope by then, and gave no words of thanks or farewell. Back to normal.

 

It only took a day back at the office for Sally to confront him this time around. Greg was buried in catch-up work, as usual, when she rapped her knuckles against his open door and stepped through, closing it shut behind her.

“Yes?” Greg muttered without looking up.

“How’s the freak?”

Greg set down his pen and shot her a look. “Really, Sally? Are we in primary school now?”

“You know what everyone says about you two, don’t you?”

He picked his pen back up and resumed filling out the form in front of him. “Yes and no I don’t care.”

“They say it’s the only reason you let him in on cases, even though it’s a risk to-”

“Couldn’t possibly have to do with his genius insight that helps us catching half these bastards, and in less time it would normally take us.”

Sally was quiet a moment. “Just be careful, Greg. He’s dangerous.”

“Of course. Was that all?”

“No. That MI6 suit is here to speak with you.”

“And you took it upon yourself to tell me so you could give me a lecture. The same smart arse comments you find it necessary to say every three months.”

“I’m hoping it’ll actually mean something one of these days.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Right. What MI6 suit?”

“From last month’s case, the one your freak was helping us on.”

“Christ, would you stop calling him that?” Then the dots connected in his head. “Him? What’s he want?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“If you’re going to act like my secretary, you could do a better job of it.”

Sally shot him a nasty look before marching out of his office.

The next moment, Mycroft was standing in the doorway.

Greg stood up, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, and motioned to the seat on the other side of the desk. “What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

“Really, Gregory?” Mycroft mused soberly as he sat. “Is it ‘Mr. Holmes’ now?”

Greg resumed his seat. “Since I’m assuming you’re here on official business, yes.”

“Very well, Detective Inspector. I’m here to discuss Mr. Carter.”

“After a month?” Greg began pulling up the files on his computer.

“We had other priorities. I had called a week ago, but I was informed you had taken ill.”

“Looking after a friend. He doesn’t have much in the way of family.”

“How generous of you.”

“Charles Carter, age twenty-nine, suspected of a triple homicide thirty-four days ago.”

“His real name is Andrei Sewick and he is an Ukranian-Russian charged with at least ten murders and assassinations throughout Europe.”

“Sounds like a swell guy.” Greg turned away from his computer. “What did you need from us?”

“Your records regarding his case and four others in the last six months.” Mycroft pulled a slip of paper from his briefcase and laid it atop the form Greg had been filling out for forensics.

Greg looked at the paper and slid it back across his desk. “You could have gotten those from records. What do you want, Mycroft?”

Mycroft glanced at the paper. “How is he?”

“Sherlock? Ask him yourself.”

“You really think he’d tell me?” He gave Greg a thin, humourless smile.

“You really think I will?” Greg shot back. “He’s fine, alright?”

“When discussing Sherlock, ‘fine’ is a rather inadequate response.”

“Christ’s sake, Mycroft, he’s your brother. Stick your pride up your arse and talk to him if you’re so worried.”

Mycroft looked nearly taken aback by Greg’s sharp words. But it quickly faded behind his mask. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“How have you been?”

Greg laughed. It wasn’t the reaction either of them was expecting, but he laughed all the same. “You’re really something, Myc.” He was grinning, but there was acid in his voice they were both very aware of. “Twelve years, and you finally decide to ask? Matter of convenience for you, is it?” The smile dissolved. “Get out of my office.”

Mycroft stood; he straightened his jacket, his briefcase, his umbrella; and he left without another word.

Greg ran both hands through his hair and leaned his elbows on his desk. He didn’t have much hope of getting anymore work done for the day, not with his head ringing like it was.

 

Sherlock was always antsy after going through heat. His tone was more biting, his quips and insults faster, and his deductions more acute. It usually took a good case or two to settle him down to his normal level of misanthropy. So Greg wasn’t sure if introducing the maniac to new people before he’d had a new case was the best idea, but Sherlock’s landlord had rung him after Sherlock had set fire to his kitchen table. Greg decided it was time Sherlock have a hobby that existed outside his home and crime scenes.

“Dr. Stamford, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Mike Stamford. He teaches in the pathology department.”

“DI’s told me about you,” Stamford said with genial enthusiasm, offering his hand.

“Hm, yes.” Sherlock’s gaze barely made it to Stamford before turning back to Greg. “Why are we here?”

“Stamford and I have worked out a deal. You’ll get shared use of one of the labs, access to supplies—after it’s been authorised by Stamford—and, in return, you share all your data with Bart’s and, on occasion, give Stamford or one of his people a hand in the morgue if they’ve got something tricky.”

Sherlock examined Greg closely, his eyes narrowing. “What else?”

“Clean up after yourself?” Greg took him by the shoulder and lowered his voice. “Look, I’m just trying to keep you from destroying your flat and half of the city along with it. Do you want this or not?”

After another second, Sherlock turned and grabbed Stamford’s limp hand. “Mike, was it? Trained at Bart’s, but didn’t go into the army? Married before you had a chance, decided to forgo service and stay with your family. Charming. Now, where’s this lab?”

Greg chuckled to himself at Stamford’s jaw-dropped expression, Sherlock ushering him down the corridor.

“He’s gorgeous,” a voice piped up from behind an open door to Greg’s left.

“And an omega,” Greg said cautiously.

“Perfect fit then.”

Greg rolled his eyes.

The young woman smiled and hugged him. “Haven’t seen you around in an age.”

“Busy.”

“Catching them before they kill, if our drought of bodies is anything to go by.”

“How’ve you been, Molly?”

“Busy.” She gave him a cheeky smile. “I’m well. So, that’s the genius you’re always on about?”

“Not always.”

“Right,” she said, dragging the word out.

“Why does everyone think I’m shagging him?”

“Because you watch him like he’s yours.” She glanced nervously away. “What I mean-”

“You’re probably right. But he doesn’t take care of himself. If I didn’t keep an eye on him, he’d be in a gutter.”

“So you’ve said.” She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Willing to take off the leash long enough for a coffee?”

“If only to spite that statement.”

Molly giggled. “Prove me wrong then, Detective Inspector!”

 

It was his day off. His first day off since Sherlock’s last heat two months ago. He’d been working weekends and long hours just to make up the time. Now he had a day off, and his bloody mobile was chiming in his ear while he was trying to sleep in.

_I would like to have a conversation with you. MH_

Greg stared at the screen long enough for his eyes to start hurting. Then he slammed it on his nightstand and stormed off to the loo. He showered and put the kettle on before he looked at it again. The words were still the same.

It was a block number, so he couldn’t call back.

_That’s nice._

It didn’t take long for the response, but Greg ignored it until he’d gotten down at least one piece of toast.

_I would rather it be in person. MH_

He punched in the response as much as one can punch small keys with one’s thumb.

_Give me a reason._

_It’s of a rather indelicate nature. MH_

Greg snorted and finished his breakfast.

_Sandwich shop near Regent’s. Speedy’s on Baker Street._

_One. MH_

_Fine._

The hours did not past quickly, and still noon was on him without warning. He hailed a cab instead of driving, not trusting himself to focus properly on the road. He arrived early, which was his intention, ordered a sandwich, and was halfway through it when Mycroft arrived. Greg watched the black car pull up, deposit its passenger, and drive away. Mycroft gave the street and shop exterior a cursory glance—or what might have been cursory for someone who wasn’t a Holmes—before stepping inside. Unsurprisingly, he sat across from Greg without ordering anything for himself.

“Favourite spot of yours?” Mycroft inquired blandly.

“Hardly. Sherlock and I ate here last year after wrapping up a case upstairs. Didn’t want you ruining my appetite for one of my usual places.”

“I see.”

Greg pushed his plate aside. “So what needed this face-to-face talk?”

“Sherlock, actually. Specifically, you and Sherlock.”

“Caught on to the gossip, have you? Guess even MI6 has its share.”

Mycroft looked temporarily nonplussed before pushing forward. “I’ll ask plainly then. Are you and Sherlock-”

“No. We’re not together, we’re not shagging.”

“Forgive me for my scepticism. You’re aware I tend to keep a rather close eye on my little brother.”

“You mean you stalk him. Yeah, Sherlock mentioned something like that.”

“Rather crude terminology,” Mycroft commented. “But it’s come to my attention that you spend several days at my brother’s flat every three months.”

Greg leaned forward on the table. “Maybe you don’t remember this, but your brother nearly got himself raped two years ago because he went looking for black market heat suppressants.”

Mycroft’s mask dissolved into sharp anger. “I remember too well.”

“So I go and stay with him and make sure he doesn’t get to that point again. Because I’m his friend. Something you should be, but you two are so self-absorbed and arrogant to actually express concern for one another in a healthy, appropriate manner.” He sat up and rolled his shoulders. “I don’t give a fuck what the Yarders talk about, or what your grunts report back to you. The plain and simple is I’m looking out for my friend.”

“I believe you.”

The easy acceptance made Greg wary. “Do you?”

“Yes. I was doubtful of the suggested implications, but hearing it from you has put my mind at ease.”

“That’s nice. But to be perfectly candid, it’s none of your fucking business what Sherlock and I are to each other. You left me in the dust twelve years ago, and I’m taking a stab in the dark and guessing you haven’t been much of a brother to Sherlock in quite some years. So even if Sherlock and I were together, your opinion on the matter would be irrelevant.” Greg pushed his chair back and made for the exit.

He was ambivalent about Mycroft following him, about him calling his name.

“What, Mycroft? What could you possibly want from me now?”

“Gregory-”

“You know what? No. You don’t get to use that name.”

Mycroft gave a solemn nod and paused before he continued. “I regretted it. I still regret it.”

The shock of Mycroft’s words put Greg into a fleeting lapse in coherent thought. All he could say after that dumbfounded moment, though, was, “It only took you twelve years to say it.”

“Greg-”

“What do you want from me, Mycroft?” he snapped. “To forgive you? Say everything’s alright? We can just go back to how it used to be? It’s been twelve fucking years. We’re different people. I’m a different person.”

Mycroft didn’t look away, didn’t stare at the ground. He kept eye contact the whole time. It was unsettling. “There’s no chance, then?”

“What do you think?”

“I see. I understand.”

Greg sighed. “No, you don’t.”

Mycroft just looked bewildered.

“For a genius, you’re an idiot. Mycroft, I still love you. I don’t think I ever stopped loving you.”

“Then-”

“But what you did to me… I don’t know if I can trust you again. And if I can’t trust you, you and I—it won’t work.” He looked Mycroft square in the eye. “Can I trust you?”

The answer came at once, “I don’t know.”

Greg let out the breath he’d been holding. “I guess honesty is a step in the right direction.” Mycroft reached for his hand, but Greg stepped away. “No. You’re- We’re going to have to start from scratch. This isn’t going to pick up from where we left off. It’s been too long, and you screwed up too badly for that.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said with a mournful nod. But there was no hiding that glimmer of hope in him.

“So call me when you want to ask me out.” Greg gave him a smile. It was small, but it was something. He turned and started down the street, hailing a cab once he was far enough from Speedy’s. When it drove past the café, Mycroft was gone.

 

The call came three days later, though it wasn’t quite the call Greg was hoping for. To start, he was in the middle of an investigation.

“This isn’t a good time,” he said apologetically. Sally was already giving him a sideways look.

Mycroft ignored him and went straight to the punch. “I seem to be having difficulty.”

Greg turned his back on the scene so he could grin to himself and lower his voice. “It’s a date, Myc. Even you must have taken someone on a date in the last twelve years. What’s the difficulty?”

“Our situation is entirely different.”

Greg frowned. “Because of our past? I told you, new start.”

“No, not because of our history.”

“Oh. I see. So what, you’ve having trouble finding a place that’s tolerant of—” he lowered his voice further “—incompatibles?”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s discomfort was evident, though maybe only to someone who had known him in his younger years, before he had polished his nonchalant air and constant mask of mild disdain toward everyone around him.

Greg smirked. “You’re, well, you, and you can’t find a nice quiet place in all of London?”

There was a long pause, and Greg imagined Mycroft shifting uncomfortably in the solitude of his Whitehall office. “If prompted, I could list every international delegate that has stepped into this building in the last twenty years.”

“Uh huh.”

“I know the names and faces of the most influential minds of the past century.”

“Mycroft-”

“However, my knowledge of London’s non-criminal underground is… rather limited.”

Greg sighed, but it was a fond sound and paired with a smile. “You could have just said you don’t know. Alright, you pick a when, I’ll figure out the where.”

“So you do have knowledge of such… tolerant establishments?”

“I’ve been on the force for almost eight years. I would be a shameful excuse of a detective inspector if I didn’t at least know a few. Now, I really have to go. Dead bodies and all.”

“Of course. Greg.”

“Hm?”

There was a hesitation on the other line. “Good luck with the case.”

It was obvious that was not what Mycroft had intended to say. Greg thanked him anyway and hung up.

“The freak?” Sally asked when Greg re-joined the team around the body.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Now, what did Anderson find?” He pushed back his coat and rested his hands on his hip, and Sally took the signal to get back to work and stop prying. At least for now.

 

“No,” Greg said when he found Mycroft waiting in front of his building with one of his shiny black cars at his back.

“What?”

Greg crossed his arms. “You wanted to keep things low-key, under the radar. No chauffeurs. And Christ, Mycroft, you really don’t have to wear a three-piece suit everywhere you go. You’re off the clock.”

Mycroft’s brow creased ever so slightly.

“We’ll swing by your place. You can change, dismiss the car, and we’ll take a cab over.”

Mycroft didn’t argue or even comment, which was quite the indication of how desperate he was to appease Greg. A few minutes into the silent car ride, he cleared his throat. “I suppose I should ask about your day.”

Greg turned from the window smiling. “It might be a start.” He chuckled softly and added, “But it’s not you, so don’t worry about it.”

Greg waited on the stoop in front of Mycroft’s house, declining to wait inside. He should’ve expected something grand, but the fact that Mycroft had a townhouse in one of the wealthiest parts of the city still threw him. He tried to think if he had ever passed it before; he’d had plenty of cases in the area.

Mycroft emerged a few minutes later greatly dressed down. He’d gone from three-piece suit to slacks and a grey sleeveless jumper over a deep blue dress shirt.

“Much better,” Greg said with a genuine smile. His words were a tamed down version of what he was actually thinking as intimate memories flickered through his head.

In the cab, Greg handed a slip of paper to the cabbie with the address written down. Mycroft gave him a curious look.

“Surprise?” Greg shrugged and leaned back into the seat. He’d been to the place before in passing, on a case. He hadn’t had the chance to go back as a patron, though. After all, it wasn’t that he was adverse to dating compatibles—he’d dated omega men and even a few omega and beta women—it was just that incompatibility wasn’t off-putting.

The crowd was a mix of couples, singles, and groups of friends; not all the couples were incompatibles, not by a long shot, but, during his investigation, Greg had picked up it was an unspoken rule that prejudice wasn’t tolerated.

They sat at a small table and ordered drinks and food. It seemed like Mycroft was following Greg’s lead every step of the way. “When’s the last time you went on a date?”

Mycroft gave him a mildly affronted look. “Is it relevant to this date?”

“No, I suppose not. Just curious.” That ended that string of conversation, and they fell into uncomfortable silence.

“This is ridiculous,” Mycroft erupted.

Greg looked at him carefully. “If you don’t want to-”

“No, this whole ‘start from scratch’ nonsense. We know everything about one another. We have nothing to discuss that might be ‘first date material.’” He was glowering, but not at Greg. Almost as if to himself.

“Not true.” He took Mycroft’s disconcerted look calmly. “A lot can happen in twelve years. You don’t know about my time at the academy, how I came to London; I don’t know how you managed to climb the bureaucratic rungs so quickly.” He knew Mycroft was impatient. He wanted to be impatient himself. He wanted to trust Mycroft again, he was desperate to, but he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t about to rush into things only to find out too late that he’d end up on the curb all over again.

Mycroft picked up the conversation again after their drinks were delivered. “I presume you had a rather successful time at the academy, considering how quickly you’ve climbed your own career ladder.”

“Actually, I didn’t.” He took a drink from his pint and leaned back in his chair. “Not at first. Was nearly kicked out.” He was pleased with Mycroft’s intrigued expression. It was nice to know he could still take him off guard, even if it was only a little. “One too many fights with my peers. Nearly gave one of my instructors a black eye as well.”

“Why? You’ve never been prone to violence, not excessively.”

Greg drank, shrugged, and stared at his glass. “I was angry. All the time. I couldn’t stop being angry.”

Mycroft wetted his lips and finally sipped his own cocktail. “Because of me.”

“Yeah. Pissed at you. Pissed at myself. Pissed at the whole bloody world.”

“What changed things?”

“When they threatened to expel me, I got scared. This was what I’d wanted to do since I was a kid. I’d put it off for so long, and suddenly it was going to be taken away from me.” He looked up and found Mycroft ready to catch his gaze. “So I saw a therapist, got my head on straight. I was still angry for a long time, but it began to fade. Enough that I could channel it at least, put that energy into doing the best I could at the academy. Apparently, it was good enough that they sent me to London straight off.” He smiled. “Go figure.”

Mycroft ran his thumb absently up and down his glass. “Then you’ve been in London for…”

“Eight years in August.”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to contemplate his drink. “If I had known-”

“No.” Greg straightened up in his chair. “Don’t play naïve. You’re too smart for that. After the way you broke things off—you really think I was going to come looking for you?”

“I suppose not.”

“Damn straight,” he muttered before sitting back again.

And suddenly this was looking like a very bad idea. How did Greg think he could do this, forgive Mycroft and start things over? Maybe he should call it off now, before either of them got their hopes too high.

“Three years,” Mycroft said after their waiter deposited their meals in front of them.

“What?”

“That was the last time I went on a date. Three years ago. Right before I was promoted to my current position.”

“Damn. Busy job?”

“Something like that.”

They ate rather quietly, with a few meaningless words here and there, mostly out of Greg’s mouth. They each had another drink, but in the end it was silently agreed that they’d made enough progress for one evening.

Outside Greg’s flat, Mycroft took his hand. He kept holding it, despite Greg’s flinch. “I still consider the ‘start from scratch’ plan of yours completely ridiculous and highly unsuccessful.”

“That right?” Greg muttered.

“At some point, we’re going to have to mutually acknowledge that we do have a past, and it is and will play a part in the now and the future.” He stepped forward, and Greg turned his face away. “Maybe we’ve changed in twelve years, but not enough that we no longer know anything about one another.” He kissed Greg gently on his cheek, let go of his hand, and turned away. Greg didn’t move until he heard the taxi drive away.

 

Monday on gave the impression of a slow workday. Then, as the paper pushers were wrapping up their day, a call came in.

“Hell,” were the first words out of his mouth when he arrived at the scene. “You weren’t joking.”

It wasn’t the manner or scene of the death that had blown Greg away, but the victim himself. Killian Roy, twenty-six, striker for Northern Ireland.

“That’s what we said.” The paramedic handed him a clipboard to sign. “If it weren’t for the high profile of the victim, we wouldn’t have called you.”

“Who was he?”

Greg jumped at the voice behind him. “Christ, Sherlock. What are you doing here?”

“Text.”

“I didn’t text you.”

“I didn’t say the text was from you.” He strolled past Greg and the paramedic and toward the body.

Greg jogged after him. “You can’t be here without authorisation, Sherlock.”

Sherlock crouched beside the body, hands crossed over his knees. “Who was he?”

“You are incredibly lacking in general knowledge for a genius. He plays for Northern Ireland.”

“Ah, sports. Never found them important. Crushed foot. Obviously not the cause of death, unless the splintered bone severed an artery. Mid-twenties, single-”

“Twenty-six, and the tabloids say he just proposed to his girlfriend of two years.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, and I imagine tomorrow the would-have-been Mrs. Football Star will claim everything was going swimmingly between them. People are rather averse to speaking ill of the dead.” He had a phone out in his hand from somewhere and was typing rapidly away at it.

“You’re saying they split up? How could you possibly-”

“Unimportant to the case, except that it does give him a reason to be walking along the Thames the day before the first home game of the season.”

“I thought you didn’t pay attention to sports.”

“No, no. Sports are dull.” He stood and held up his mobile to Greg. “Dates, however, dates are very important.”

“When did you get a bloody smart phone?”

“Yesterday. Rather efficient.”

Greg shook his head. “Alright, so why was he in London?”

“He was having an affair.”

“An affair. Right.” Greg crossed his arms.

Sherlock sighed and crouched by the body once more, this time ushering Greg to look at something. “Here, on his shirt collar, this patch is cleaner than the rest of it. Practically bleached white. In fact.” He leaned close, sniffed, and nodded once. “Definitely bleached. A small area, approximately the size of, oh, a pair of lips?”

“Could’ve been his fiancé’s.”

“No. He’d make an attempt to clean it, but he wouldn’t bleach it. He might even throw it out. But if he had only planned to come for the day, he would need to clean his only shirt. His intent was to erase it, not clean it.”

“Why not buy a new one?”

“Even the idiot his fiancé must be might have noticed a change in shirts between breakfast and supper.”

“This is still a bit of a stretch, Sherlock. Even for you.”

“Would you like me to list the other seventeen details from which I’ve made my deduction?” He leaned in close and whispered, “Or should I point out that you keep rubbing your right cheek. Sore jaw, Detective Inspector? Or is something else on your mind?”

“What?” Greg dropped his hand, which he hadn’t even noticed he had against his face. “The case, Sherlock. How did he die?”

“A simple autopsy should divulge that much.” Sherlock pocketed his mobile and his hands and started strolling away.

“Sherlock!” Greg shook his head and muttered a few select words at Sherlock’s back. “Sergeant, get another pair of eyes to look for any substantially sized blunt objects that could do something like that to a man’s foot.”

“Sir, if the object was thrown in the water-”

“Just look!”

Sally squared her shoulders and replied with a bitter, “Yes, sir.”

Greg’s mobile vibrated in his pocket.

_Lips. SH_

While his team was scattering in search of something that might not even be there, Greg returned to the body. He squatted beside the man’s face and stared at his mouth. They were pale and bluish, but there was something else. He went to one of the forensic kits and fished out a tongue depressor. He stuffed the sterile wrapping in his pocket and knelt beside the head. He gently pulled the man’s bottom lip down, revealing a small amount of pink, foamy mucus.

“Andrews!”

One of the blokes suited up in blue jogged over to him. “It’s Anderson, sir.”

“Anderson, right. Did your people take note of this?”

Anderson examined Greg’s find and reluctantly shook his head. “No, sir. But once the autopsy-”

“I don’t want excuses. Do you know what it is?”

“Could be a few things.”

“Alright, let’s get him to the morgue. Now, Anderson.”

He watched them pack up before scanning the bank for Sally.

“Anything?”

“Nothing but the usual rubbish.”

Greg looked at his watch. “How long did they say he’d been out here?”

“Anderson said four to six hours.”

“Low tide. Fantastic,” he grumbled. “Alright, we’ll come back out tomorrow around the same time he was here and have a closer look. I don’t think the autopsy’s going to do it for us on this one.”

 

Greg slammed on Sherlock’s door. Bugger that it was after midnight; he’d only escaped the office half an hour ago. He was hungry and tired and more than a little annoyed.

“What?” Sherlock snapped when he opened the door.

“Care to explain what that was about today?” Greg brushed past the door and Sherlock.

“You mean my assist-”

“I didn’t invite you to the scene, Sherlock. You can’t just show up whenever you bloody well please. How did you even know?”

Sherlock sauntered into the kitchen, where he had something a shade of brownish-yellow in a beaker over a Bunsen burner. “Homeless network.”

“What network?”

“Homeless. As in the citizens of this fine city without a roof over their head.”

“Good Samaritan now, are we?”

“It’s a business exchange.”

“Is it now?” Greg rested his hands on his hips.

“They relay interesting information, I pay them.” He poured something blue into the beaker. It fizzled and settled, and the overlaying colour darkened.

“If someone in your ‘homeless network’ saw something-”

“You’re going to threaten them with incarceration? A hot meal and warm bed and a proper loo?” Sherlock looked up at him. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t even know half their names.”

“But they contact you.”

“In a manner of speaking. So, did they find it?”

“Did who find what?”

He pulled off his rubber gloves and steepled is fingertips over his lips. “Your court of jesters.”

“My officers haven’t found anything. Yet,” he added forcefully when Sherlock began to smirk. “We’re going back tomorrow at low tide.”

“Hm, you’re not totally inept at this. And what did the autopsy divulge?”

“Pulmonary embolism. At his age, in his condition, I was shocked.”

“‘Was’?” Sherlock’s eyes glinted.

“Yeah. I told them to take a closer look when that’s all they came back with.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“Turns out he had surgery ten days ago.”

“What kind?”

Greg crossed his arms. “You already know what kind, don’t you?”

“I have an idea.”

“Vasectomy.”

“Fascinating!”

“Oi, shut up.”

Sherlock looked back at his experiment. “Did you speak to the fiancé?”

“Ex-fiancé. I swear to god, if you rub it in I will ban you from crime scenes for a month.”

“Nonsense. You need me.”

“Hardly.”

“Occasionally, when you fail to be at least pseudo-competent.”

“Piss off.”

“Pleasure.”

Greg leaned against the archway between the kitchen and the sitting room. “Should I even ask how you figured it out?”

“I imagine you would get bored rather quickly.”

“Don’t know about bored,” Greg said through a yawn. “Exhausted, yeah.”

“I imagine. Two late nights in a row, and not the spry young man you once were.”

“I’m fit. And what’s that supposed to mean, ‘two nights’?”

“Yes, how was your date?”

“How do you know I was on a date?”

“You mean aside from the rather childish goodnight kiss on the cheek you received, as evident by your incessant—albeit absentminded—attention to the spot?” Sherlock looked up. “I suppose I shouldn’t hold out hope that they’re actually interesting.”

Greg glanced away. “No, I suppose they wouldn’t be to you.”

“Pity.”

“Right, I’m off. Don’t forget the eating and sleeping thing you’ve promised to do.”

“I’ve made no such promises,” Sherlock called after him. “Only considerations.”

Greg shook his head, smiling, as he left the flat.

 

“A cannonball!” Greg shook his head. “Can you believe it? The poor bastard broke his foot trying to kick a nineteenth century cannonball. Knocked loose a clot he’d formed from his surgery, and it went straight to his lungs. No one was around, and he didn’t have his mobile on him. It’s absurd.”

Maybe it was just that—the absurdity of the case—or the couple glasses of wine he’d already imbibed, but Greg was beginning to feel relaxed around Mycroft for the first time in over a decade. He had certainly been looking forward to the evening since Mycroft called him the day before, and, in a post-case exuberance, he invited over for a homemade supper.

“Quite the unlucky series of events,” Mycroft commented.

“Sorry. Bored you, haven’t I?”

“No, not at all. It delays my having to apologise that I am unable to share anecdotes from my week thus far as it would cause a security breach.”

Greg chuckled. “Alright, then.”

Mycroft smiled.

Greg had forgotten that smile, or thought he’d forgotten it. Pushed it away, if he were to be honest with himself. He stood and began gathering the dishes. “Afraid I didn’t get a chance to pick something up for dessert.”

“That’s fine.”

He scraped the dishes and stacked them in the sink to wash later. “If you want to go out and grab something-”

“It’s fine, Greg. I’m fine staying right here.” Mycroft’s breath ghosted across the back of his neck, hands settling lightly on his hips.

Greg turned around between his arms. “Lounge?” he suggested a little hoarsely.

“Of course.”

They took their glasses with them, but set them aside as soon as they were on the sofa. Mycroft’s hand was on Greg’s cheek in a moment, guiding his face toward him.

“Myc…” But he pushed into the kiss.

It was old and new all at once. Christ, Mycroft had been a couple inches shorter the last time they did this, and his shoulders hadn’t been quite so broad. Greg certainly never kept stubble for long back then; now he was lucky if he remembered to shave every couple of days, depending on how hectic the week was. But there was an old familiarity in the kiss.

Greg pulled away when Mycroft’s hand toyed with the hem of his shirt. “No,” he said quietly, the breath sucked out of him from the lingering kiss. “Not yet. I can’t.”

“Alright,” Mycroft said, clearly doing his best not to look dejected. “May I at least kiss you again?”

Greg smiled. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” He leaned back on the sofa as Mycroft once more captured Greg’s face with his hands and Greg’s mouth with his own. This kiss was far less chaste and just as wonderful. He revelled in the taste of Mycroft’s mouth, teasing his tongue between his lips gradually.

And it all came to an abrupt end when Greg’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Bloody hell,” he growled. He struggled to pull it free, silenced it without even looking at the message, and set on the floor.

“Important?”

“They can call if it is.” He cupped Mycroft’s face in his hands.

Mycroft turned and kissed the heel of his palm. “Do all your second dates go like this?”

“Depends on how well the date goes.” His smile faded a little. “But you were right. There’s no way we can build this from the ground up again.”

“I anticipate a ‘but’ following that statement.”

“But we definitely can’t pick up from the last happy memory. Do you understand?”

“Of course.” Mycroft settled onto the sofa and squeezed his arm under Greg to wrap him up. Greg let him. “I never expected your forgiveness. I hoped for it, to be sure, but I was under no delusion that I would receive it.”

“You haven’t,” Greg said cautiously, relaxing in Mycroft’s arms. “Not yet, not completely.”

“I understand.”

“But you’ve made a nice start.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He kissed Greg’s shoulder through his shirt and pulled him closer.

This time Greg’s phone did ring, and he swore loudly and colourfully. “What, Sherlock?” he snapped into the receiver.

“We’ve made a mistake.”

“About what?”

“Roy’s lover is sterile.”

“So?”

“As is his ex-fiance.”

Greg sat up and Mycroft’s arms fell away. “Then why would he get a vasectomy? Another affair?”

“Perhaps.”

“Sherlock,” Greg spoke slowly, “what are you suggesting?”

“Was his surgery ever found in any records? Private hospitals most likely.”

“We didn’t look. It seemed pretty straightforward. Bizarre, but-”

“Believable. Believable and yet odd enough to make it an acceptable end note.”

“You think it was a murder after all?”

“I need to go.”

“Where?”

“St. Bart’s.”

“Sherlock, don’t you bloody dare examine that body without police clearance.” At least that’s what Greg was going to say had Sherlock not hung up on him on the third word. “Shit.”

“It takes quite a bit of energy, doesn’t it?” Mycroft sat up beside him. “Looking after him.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. I remember having to cover your back in aloe because you didn’t put sunblock on that pale skin on the sunniest day in a decade.”

Mycroft leaned over and kissed Greg’s neck. “I don’t recall it being an entirely miserable experience.”

Greg smiled and turned to kiss the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “I’m sorry, but-”

“Damage control. I’ve been there plenty of times myself.”

“Call me.”

“Of course.” Mycroft gave him one more kiss, this one on the forehead as he rose from the sofa.

 

Greg arrived at St. Bart’s morgue to find Sherlock pacing up and down the room. As soon as he entered the room, Sherlock snapped around to face him, pointing tactlessly to a very nervous looking Molly Hooper standing in front of Killian Roy’s cold chamber.

“What is she doing here?”

“She works here, and she has legal access to Roy’s body. So shut up and let her do her work.” He brushed past Sherlock to Molly. “If you don’t want to do this-”

“It’s fine,” she cut him off. She turned and opened the unit. “What are looking for?”

“Anything.” Greg glanced over at Sherlock, who was hovering impatiently. “We’re not sure.”

Molly just nodded and pulled on a pair of gloves. She went through a sped up report of the earlier autopsy, indicating the sight of the vasectomy, the likely origin of the clot, and so on.

“How invasive was the autopsy?” Sherlock demanded.

“Not especially,” Molly replied, shifting from one foot to the other, hands clasped in front of her, occasionally giving Greg brief looks for approval to answer Sherlock’s question. “Once it was clear the clot was in the lungs, we completed the basics and wrapped up.”

“There’s something…” Sherlock leaned over the neck of the corpse and sniffed sharply.

“Sherlock!” Greg grabbed his shoulder, but Sherlock pushed him back.

He continued his olfactory investigation, pinpointing specific areas of the body until he was at the pelvis. Here he retracted with disgust.

“What? What is it?”

“Oestrogen. Synthetic.”

“You can smell that?” Greg blinked.

“Betas,” Sherlock muttered with blatant annoyance. He turned to Molly. “What are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Beta or omega?”

“Bit personal,” Greg warned.

Molly looked nervously between them.

“It is pertinent to the case.” He gestured to the corpse. “I will find out myself if necessary. Are you an omega or a beta?”

She gave one last sidelong look at Greg before answering, “Alpha.”

Sherlock blinked with evident surprise. He looked as if he were about to lean in and check for himself. But he pulled back to the matter at hand and nodded curtly. “That will work.”

“For what?” Greg shifted closer to the corpse, to Molly. He wasn’t about to let Sherlock drag Molly further into this madness.

“Beta olfactory senses are weak. Even without the amplification caused by oestrus and mating-”

“Yeah, thanks. I took basic anatomy. You’re not making her smell a corpse, Sherlock.”

But Molly had moved past him and leaned over the body, holding her hair behind her neck. “He’s right. It is synthetic.” She looked between the two. “A lot of it.”

Greg paused. “How much is ‘a lot’?”

“We’ll have to test the blood. Urine, semen. But,” she said slowly, “I would guess a dangerous level. Levels maybe only seen in omegas during oestrus. And there’s something else.” She eyed Sherlock nervously. “Something you missed.”

He scowled “What?”

“Testosterone. Synthetic, just like the oestrogen, and probably just as high.” She focused on Greg. “It’s, uhm, hard for omegas to pick up when they’re not in oestrus.”

Greg nodded, completely ignoring Sherlock’s infuriated expression. He pulled out his mobile and rang Sally, who was not at all happy to be disturbed. After he explained the situation, he said, “We need to get the fiancé and the lover here. I don’t care if they need to be bodily dragged into the Yard. Ms. Hooper is going to do a more extensive autopsy. I’m going back to the bank.”

“It’s close to midnight.”

“Low tide. I’ve got a torch.”

“He’ll be with you, won’t he?”

Greg looked up at Sherlock. “Yes. He sees more than we do and don’t deny it. We need him on this one.”

“Sure we do, sir.”

“See you at the office in a couple hours.”

After he hung up, Sherlock shot for the exit.

“Greg,” Molly said before he’d taken two steps. “I lied. I don’t know if he knows I lied, but-”

“What?”

“Omegas can smell testosterone outside oestrus,” she said, and then she took a deep breath, which Greg knew preceded a bombshell. “Unless they’re on heat suppressants.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry, but-”

“No, I’m glad you told me.” Greg ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t deal with it now, though. I’ll talk to him once this is all wrapped up. Get me that autopsy report, yeah?”

“Sure.” She gave him a said smile before he turned and left.

 

They had been scouring the bank with torches for less than an hour when Molly called. “It’s… awful.”

“What is, Mol?”

She took a shuddering breath. “He’s been scraped.”

Greg stopped in his tracks, pebbles scattering at his feet.

“It’s old. Years old. But, Greg, Killian Roy is—or was—an omega.”

“Christ.”

“It was professional, whoever did it. Minimal scarring, no sign of postsurgical infection. But they did everything. Uterus, ovaries. They even closed the intercolonary vagina.”

“So, what, he overdosed on his prescription hormones?”

“I doubt it. Like I said, this procedure happened years ago. He’d have it down to habit. And when I say years, Greg-”

“Before he joined Norn Iron, right. Thanks, Molly. You’re brilliant.” He hung up and rang Sally. “Get his teammates in town as well.”

“The whole team?”

“And the coaches.”

“They’re not going to like this, not with the game-”

“I. Give. One. Bloody. Fuck.” He took a deep breath. “Sally, he’s scraped. If someone on the team found out, it could’ve gotten ugly. We’ve seen it before.”

“Right.”

“Anything?” he called to Sherlock after he finished with Sally. When Sherlock didn’t respond, he walked over to him. He was staring down at the cannonball the team had found what was now yesterday.

Sherlock looked up. “No.”

“Go home, get some sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ve got more than a dozen interviews-”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped.

“Alright, suit yourself.”

 

Three hours and too much coffee later, they started with the fiancé.

“He told me it was a birth defect, that his body didn’t create sperm. It still made me nervous, so I asked for the vasectomy. As a wedding present.”

Then the girlfriend.

“That freak! He said it was some weird defect. You know, I thought it was great. Never had to worry about being found out because of a bun in the oven. Ugh, I need a cold shower.”

The coach was oblivious. The assistant coach, less so.

“I knew.”

Greg looked at Sally, who stood beside his chair, and back. “You knew?”

“That he was scraped. I sponsored him for it. Paid for the flight, took repayments for the surgery. He was brilliant. But we both knew his chances of playing for a real team were nil. No one was going to allow an omega onto an international team, players or fans.”

Greg and Sally exchanged a look. “We’re going to suggest you don’t leave your hotel.”

“I get it.” The sombre coach nodded complacently. Sally opened the door for him, and he stepped out only to be punch in the face.

“FREAK LOVER.”

“Restrain him!” Greg jumped from his seat as Sally grabbed for the assailant. There was a confusion of bodies as the assistant coach stumbled back into the room, but in moments Sally had the second man under arrest. “Who the hell are you?” Greg snapped as Sally cuffed him.

But the man was just seething in the direction of the now broken-nosed coach.

“Tommy? Oh jesus, Tommy.” A revelation appeared in the coach’s watering eyes. “Don’t tell me you had anything to do with this.”

“That freak deserved to die!” The scream was a horrific sound.

“Take him downstairs,” Greg ordered. Sally nodded and pushed the man ahead of her. Greg turned to the coach. “Teammate?”

“Tommy—Thomas Gallagher. He hasn’t played yet, brand new. Kid looked up to Killian, though. Christ, how did he even find out?”

“We’ll figure that out later. Right now, let’s get you patched up.” He motioned for an officer standing by to assist the coach. As they walked off, Greg’s gaze drifted up to the end of the corridor where Sherlock stood impassively, hands clasped behind his back. He arched a brow, and then walked away.

 

Greg was given half a day to go home, shower, sleep. When he went to the kitchen for a bite, he was reminded of the abrupt end to his evening.

_Sorry about last night._

_Not at all. The papers suggest things went well. MH_

_If by ‘well’ you mean our accident turned into involuntary manslaughter, yeah. Something like that._

_Anything I can do? MH_

Greg leaned back against his counter and smiled. _No, thanks. Hate to say it, but I’m getting used to this job._

_You are an exceptional fit for it. MH_

He actually blushed. He couldn’t think of anything better to say than ‘thank you,’ so he replied with that and finished scrounging up lunch.

On his way out the front door, he texted Sally, _Coming in an hour late._

_I don’t think anyone’s going to complain after last night._

He showed up unannounced at Sherlock’s front door, not that Sherlock ever seemed surprised by it. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Last night went well,” the seemingly tireless genius commented.

“Guess so.” Greg closed the door and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Sherlock, I talked to Molly last night. After you rushed out.”

“I admit she’s adequate at her job, if rather ungainly.”

“Ungainly? Molly- No, no.” Greg rubbed his creasing brow. “That’s not what I came here to talk about. Sherlock, you didn’t know she was an alpha.”

“She is quite atypical in behaviour and mannerisms for an alpha.”

“Says the most atypical omega I’ve ever known.”

Sherlock smirked.

“But you should’ve figured that out. And you should have smelled the excess testosterone on Roy.”

“Nonsense. Ms. Hooper said herself-”

“She lied, and you know it. You were just hoping I wouldn’t catch on. Sherlock, you’re taking suppressants again.”

Sherlock said nothing, just stared unperturbed at him.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Why are you back with Mycroft?”

Greg started. “What? First off, how the hell do you even know about that? Second, it’s none of your business. Third, what does that have to do with anything?”

“It wasn’t a difficult deduction.”

“Rhetorical!” Greg snapped. “My being with Mycroft isn’t going to cause me irreparable damage.”

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed. “Don’t be so sure.”

Greg stepped back. “You are such a child,” he growled. “Are you honestly telling me you’re risking your own wellbeing as a form of protest? To who I choose to date?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock waved the notion away. “Obviously who you choose to bed has nothing to do with my decisions about my body.”

“Then don’t bring it up. Sherlock, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“On the contrary, I learned from my experience two years ago. I am obtaining them from the same source, after testing the first batch to ensure it was what as advertised. I take a relatively small dosage regularly to pre-emptively-”

“Shut up. Just shut up. You know what heat suppressants can do, especially with long-term use.”

“Yes, they can potentially inhibit heats permanently. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? A dream come true for some of us.”

“You’re impossible. Fine, go ahead, risk your own life. I’m not going to be a witness to it.” Greg slammed the door as he left.

 

Mycroft was probably the last person Greg should have gone to have his row with Sherlock. In his defence, he didn’t go straightaway. He was expected back at work for the rest of the day. And he did grab a bite to eat and maybe a pint after that. But then he found himself in front of Mycroft’s door, fist poised to knock, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. Probably not.

“He’s not home.”

Greg turned to find Mycroft at the bottom of the steps. “Hey.”

Mycroft waved absently to the black car waiting on the curb side and it drove slowly away.

“I thought you’d already be home.” Greg stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. “I’ll come by some other time.”

“Greg, you ought to know I don’t mind your company. It’s certainly a pleasant sight to come home to.” He smiled, until Greg didn’t respond. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Mycroft walked up and put his key into the door, leaning close to Greg in the process. “The lie would be obvious to the least observant. Is this the ‘nothing’ I should pry into, or the ‘nothing’ you truly want me to leave be?”

Greg shook his head.

Mycroft opened the door and put his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Come in.”

The inside of Mycroft’s home was not what Greg was expecting, although it shouldn’t have surprised him. He remembered the Holmes estate being full of ornate nonsense, as Mycroft put it once. This home reflected Mycroft’s bedroom much better: simple without being drab, clean and minimalistic without being Spartan. There was a mirror by the door, an umbrella stand with two umbrellas identical to the third Mycroft now added, a small table covered in unopened mail, and an alarm system mounted above it. There was a staircase on the right and a narrow hall on the left. Mycroft shucked his jacket and hung it on the banister, propped his briefcase by the bottom stair, and offered to take Greg’s coat.

Greg shed it and handed it over. Mycroft opened a coat closet on the other side of the table and hung it. Then he led Greg down the hall to a kitchen.

“It doesn’t meet your expectations,” Mycroft said mildly as he filled his electric kettle.

“I don’t know if I had any.” Greg sat at the small kitchen table. “But it’s definitely… different.”

“From?”

He opened his mouth about to say Sherlock’s place, but he managed to correct his course and instead replied, “Your family’s house?”

“And there is the crux of your presence here.” Mycroft sat across from him, never missing the unsaid. “What happened?”

Greg rubbed his hands over his face. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Because you feel it betrays your friendship with my brother. It’s your choice.” Mycroft reached across the table and covered Greg’s hands with his. “I’ll listen, if you decide you want to talk about it.”

“I…”

“What?”

Greg shook his head. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that.” He was afraid that was going to annoy Mycroft, get him shown the door.

But Mycroft nodded sagely. “You expected something along the lines of, ‘I’m his brother, we both care about him, so you should tell me what’s wrong.’”

“Er, yeah.” Greg pulled his hands away. “Sorry, I shouldn’t-”

“Because twelve years ago, I would have taken that course.” The kettle clicked off and Mycroft rose. “Earl?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Mycroft kept speaking as he pulled out teabags and mugs. “One trait I unfortunately share with my brother is the ability to manipulate others with little to no regard for the individual.”

Greg bit his tongue on that one.

“Unlike Sherlock, however, I have channelled this tendency into my career.” He passed a sardonic smile to Greg and set their cups on the table, turning the handle of Greg’s toward him. “It’s somewhat cathartic, and leaves me with less impulse to act that way in my private life.”

Greg pulled the hot ceramic between his hands. “Whereas it’s the only way Sherlock knows how to behave.”

“Precisely. But it was also the only way I knew how to behave when I was a frightened twenty-two-year-old.”

“Frightened?” Greg frowned. “Why were you frightened?”

“I saw my future, or rather two futures. There was no question about where I was headed professionally, but where my personal life was bound was still up in the air. On the one hand, this,” he motioned to the room, the house—the empty house. “On the other hand, I could have you, but to danger to us both.”

“Danger? Myc, I’m not afraid of intolerant prats.”

“No, and you never were.” Mycroft took on an air of fond nostalgia, and it was an odd look on him.

And yet it was comforting to Greg.

“But I speak of a more serious threat. Though my true role and capacity in the government is not widely known—most of the populous is unlikely to even recognise my name—there are other factions who are quite aware of my identity my… internal prominence.”

Greg started to shake his head, not quite getting what Mycroft was saying.

“Anyone with whom I might form an intimate relationship would be at risk. The last person I want in that position is you.”

“Oh.” The quiet sound escaped Greg’s mouth as his chest swelled and immediately hollowed. “Then why are we doing this?”

Mycroft rubbed his temple with his fingertips. “Because I miss you, Greg. Simply knowing you were working and living in this city drove me mad. For an age, I could make myself forget, pretend you were elsewhere, perhaps with your own family, and I was simply a bad memory.”

“You were never a bad memory. There were bad moments, but, on the whole, you’ve always been a pretty good memory.” He smiled, trying to ease Mycroft’s tension, but it didn’t seem to be working.

“I’ve been torn to two mind since I saw you in Sherlock’s hospital room. On the one hand, ignoring you would be safest.”

“Safe? Safe is pretty boring.”

Mycroft slammed his palm on the table. “This isn’t a laughing matter, Gregory!”

“I know.” Greg took a deep breath. “And the other mind?”

Mycroft’s shoulders relaxed. “Seeing you reminded me just how much I loved you, and how little those feelings had faded.”

Greg’s heart raced. He leaned forward on the table slowly. “So you did love me?”

“Of course I did. Aren’t you listening? I lied to you so you could go have a real life, a real family. Not live with a dangerous man.”

“What’s a family? Kids? I don’t need kids to have a family.” He reached out his hand and laid it palm-up on the table. “I just need someone I love, who loves me back.”

Mycroft looked at Greg’s hand, but he didn’t take it.

So Greg got up, circled the little table, and put his hand right on front of Mycroft. After a moment of staring, Mycroft took it. Greg pulled him to his feet and wrapped his other hand around the back of Mycroft’s neck. “I’m a big boy, Myc. If I don’t want the risk, I’ll tell you. Deal?”

Mycroft nodded.

“You’re worth the risk to me. Am I, to you?”

“Of course you are, Gregory.” Mycroft leaned his forehead on Greg’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t need the apology, but that was the moment Greg realised that, at some point during the course of their conversation, he had forgiven Mycroft. He wrapped his arms around the other beta and hugged him tight. “It’s alright.” And he felt Mycroft relax into his embrace, as if, in that moment, he knew he was forgiven.

“I don’t deserve you,” Mycroft murmured into Greg’s shirt.

“Hm, maybe. But I think I’ll have you anyway.”

Mycroft chuckled and looked up at Greg.

Greg, one hand still at the back of Mycroft’s neck, drew him close. “I love you, Myc.” He kissed him, and it was somehow both passionate and chaste. A wordless promise, or maybe just a hope: to stand by one another.

“Greg?” Mycroft breathed against his lips when the kiss finally ended.

“Mhm?”

“I sincerely hate to ‘kill the mood,’ but I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

Greg pulled back and laughed. “I suppose I can forgive you for that.”

Neither of them really wanted to let go of the other, and they separated slowly, hands lingering. But eventually Mycroft turned to the table and swept up the cups, the tea far over steeped.

“I’ll do that,” Greg said, taking them from him, brushing hands like an adolescent. “You find yourself something to eat.”

The latter proved to be a difficult task, as Mycroft’s pantry and fridge were sparsely stocked.

“Do you even know how to cook?” Greg teased as he mixed milk into Mycroft’s tea.

“Amusing. I rarely have the time do so, though.”

“Takeaway?”

“That might be best. Do you want anything?”

“I’m good.”

Their conversation took a turn for the mundane, but neither of them seemed to mind. Greg certainly didn’t; listening to Mycroft’s voice was all he needed. The words didn’t matter. And, in turn, he didn’t mind doing most of the talking while Mycroft ate. Greg even made him laugh a couple times, and he hadn’t realised he had missed the sound. But it wasn’t surprising. He had missed everything, and he was ready to experience it all again.

So when Mycroft has finished eating and there was a lull in the conversation, Greg looked pointedly and not at all subtly to the hall, moving his gaze in an upward arc.

Mycroft didn’t even bother with a cheeky remark. He took Greg’s hand and led the way back down the hall and up the stairs, past the neglected jacket and briefcase.

There had been nights and, yes, days when they had trouble making it to the bed; there were times when making it to bed was no problem, but they were still half dressed by the time they both came; and there were those times when it was slow and measured. They had all been good times. Awkward here and there, especially in the beginning, experiments they never cared to try again, but always they ended on a good note.

But Greg was almost forty now, and Mycroft making his way in that direction, and they had both had other lovers since they were twenty-something and wilfully naïve about the world. They stood by the bed undressing each other gradually, planting a kiss on a shoulder, a neck, a collarbone, cheek, brow, lips. They examined each other, read the changes that had occurred over the years.

There was no doubt Mycroft read infinitely more in Greg than Greg did in him, but that didn’t mean Greg was unable to read anything. He read the sedentary life, the softness that had taken Mycroft. He was no longer the young man who went swimming in the lake behind his family’s estate every day of summer, the sun turning his skin into a canvas of freckles, enriching the red of his hair. He was pale now, the freckles present but scarce. His thinning hair had a duller tone of red. Greg combed his fingers through it and found it was still as soft as his memory told him it had been.

“Three years?” Greg muttered against Mycroft’s neck.

“Huh?”

“You said it’d been three years since you went on a date.”

“That by no means implies I haven’t had sex in three years.”

“Scandalous,” Greg laughed softly against Mycroft’s skin.

“What about you?”

“Am I going to be graded?”

“You brought it up.” Mycroft trailed his fingers down Greg’s spine.

Greg breathed in sharply, his back arching inward so his hips brushed with Mycroft’s. “Fair point.”

Mycroft pressed the flat of his hand against Greg’s low back, encouraging the motion his fingers had started. Greg obliged, rolling his hips into Mycroft.

An idea flickered into existence and he smiled to himself. He hooked his leg behind Mycroft’s, twisted, and brought him down onto the bed.

Mycroft stared up, completely breathless for a moment. “Do they teach that at the academy?”

“With a different purpose in mind.” Greg positioned himself between Mycroft’s knees at the end of the bed.

“And what purpose do you have in mind?”

“Oh, I think you can work that out for yourself.” Greg slid his hands up Mycroft’s thighs to his hips and lowered himself.

He nosed Mycroft’s cock, inhaling as he pressed a kiss to the shaft. He licked up until he reached the head. He removed a hand from Mycroft’s hips and wrapped it around the base, guiding the stiffening prick into his mouth. It was still soft enough that he could take it in completely, which he did. With his nose buried in amber pubes, he inhaled again, deeply and slowly.

The scent was never as strong in betas as in omegas—or alphas, if Greg’s one liaison with an alpha was anything to go by—and that was something Greg found he actually preferred about betas. He wasn’t overwhelmed by the pheromones of omegas and alphas, he never became lightheaded or dizzy with the feeling that he was suddenly less than sober. His experiences with betas was less—animal—and he appreciated that. The experiences were different, maybe less intense with betas, but not inherently less enjoyable. If anything, he enjoyed it more, being able to take his time without the head rush of the other’s hormone-ridden libido driving him on.

And, of course, it was Mycroft. Mycroft, whose scent he had once known better than his own, whose presence he could detect on scent alone, despite his ‘weaker’ beta olfactory senses. But that had all faded, and now he was taking a moment to reacquaint his nose with it.

Mycroft’s fingers found their way to Greg’s hair, where they combed front to back, then forward. Greg pulled up, dragging the flat of his tongue and tight-pressed lips along the shaft until he let go with a wet suck. Mycroft’s pelvis twitched, and Greg smiled.

He made his way up the bed, leaving a trail of little bruises as he went: thigh, hip, stomach, chest, shoulder, neck. At the last, he burrowed his nose into the crook of Mycroft’s neck and breathed in as much as his lungs would hold.

“Is that it?” Mycroft teased and set his hands on Greg’s waist.

“What do you mean?” Greg muttered and rocked his hips against Mycroft.

Mycroft slipped his hands from waist to buttocks and squeezed. Greg’s pelvis jerked forward, and Mycroft spread his legs so that one of Greg’s knees fell between them, and, likewise, one of Mycroft’s legs was now between Greg’s. With his hands firmly on Greg’s rear, Mycroft pressed his thigh up into his groin.

They’d each tried penetrative sex with each other in the past. While they admitted there was some added baser, physical pleasure to the experience, and they had continued to use the occasional finger, a full cock in the arse never became a turn on for either of them. They preferred this, a more gradual pace without some finite end in mind other than climax. It could happen in a hand, a mouth, against the other’s cock, pressed between their stomachs, or squeezed between thighs. It didn’t matter. They touched and tasted with leisure—or not. Each time was organic, and each as different as the next. Greg used to wonder what that was like for a man—for a mind so ordered and controlled as Mycroft’s.

Except now, years later, these little details began to click together. They breathed into one another’s open mouths, each with a hand around the other’s prick, moving with their own rhythm and into the other’s so that, before all was said in done, there was a moment of harmony. And, as Greg lay on Mycroft, feeling an old familiar trembling under him, he realised what this did to Mycroft.

He looked around and found a box of tissues on the nightstand. Limbs weak from orgasm, he reached clumsily for them and managed to knock it off, obtaining a solitary tissue in the process. He groaned and laughed with embarrassment, pressing his face against Mycroft’s shoulder for a moment.

Greg finally pulled himself together and sat up, kneeling with one of Mycroft’s thighs between his legs. He wiped off his hand and prick and fished over the side of the bed for the box, grasping for at least one more tissue. It was all he managed without getting off his arse, which he quite honestly didn’t feel like doing. He handed his conquest to Mycroft and dropped his crumpled tissue on the ground, hoping Mycroft wouldn’t mind. In a moment it was clear he didn’t, as he did the same with his own.

Greg lay down on Mycroft’s side and kissed his wet cheeks. Mycroft’s eyes were closed, but he was still awake. Greg thought he might be reordering, tidying up as if the rooms in his mind had been shaken by an earthquake. Too ordered, that’s what Mycroft’s head was like. It was too carefully built, and the release of neurochemicals in their myriad of forms caused by orgasm was all that was needed to disturb the foundation of propriety and science and politics.

He remembered the first time it happened, Mycroft crying after orgasm. Their first time together, and Mycroft’s first time with anyone. Mycroft was horrified, reiterating that it had never happened when he had masturbated. He kept muttering how he wasn’t sad, kept trying to reassure Greg that he had enjoyed it, he didn’t know why his body was betraying him. Greg had scooped him into his lap, pressing Mycroft’s head against his chest, and quieted him like a child. He told him it was fine, sometimes it just happened. As long as he wasn’t upset or in pain—and Mycroft had interrupted him to declare he was neither—then it was fine. It didn’t matter. Greg didn’t care if he cried after sex; so what? As long as he had fun, as long as he enjoyed himself—and Mycroft had nodded and told him breathlessly how amazing it was, how self-pleasure could never compare. Greg had laughed and kissed the top of his head and Mycroft had snuggled into him.

Now, years later, with several partners between, Greg thought he might have figured it out. It could have just been the release; it was that simple for some people. But he had a feeling there was more to it for Mycroft Holmes, something deeper and less clinical.

Mycroft turned onto his side and they met face-to-face in the quiet; London was so very far away. Greg leaned his head forward until their brows pressed together.

“Stay the night?” Mycroft whispered.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”


	3. Chapter 3

There was one thing Greg knew for certain when Sherlock brought this John Watson onto his crime scene: Greg did not like him. Or maybe it was just the situation. While inviting a strange alpha to live with him might have been a new and unexpected form of stupidity for Sherlock, it was hardly the most shocking risk the madman had taken over the years.

As soon as they were both cleared from the house, Sherlock raving about a suitcase, the doctor looking more than a little lost, Greg ordered Anderson and his team back to work and pulled out his mobile. Three years ago, he might have felt guilty about what he was about to do, and some distant corner of his mind still did. But, three years ago, Sherlock had made it abundantly clear that, if Greg was going to pursue a relationship with Mycroft anew, Sherlock would have nothing to do with him—outside of an interesting enough crime scene.

“It’s nearly eight,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly. “Another ‘suicide’?”

“Yeah.”

“Talked to Sherlock yet?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “So glad you have faith in my abilities as a homicide detective.”

Mycroft sighed into the phone. “I don’t doubt your abilities, love. I merely mean-”

“I know, I know. This one’s got me. Especially now there’s a note.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, which is why I went to Baker Street half an hour ago, and Sherlock just left the scene.”

“I see. Something wrong?”

Greg glanced around and decided to move into a less occupied room of the house. “He had someone with him. A Dr. John Watson. Never seen him before.”

“Any indications of their relationship?”

“Just said ‘he’s with me.’ Some kind of assistant I think.” Greg could hear typing on the other end. “Anything?”

“Army surgeon, former. Invalided home two months ago after a stint in intensive care for a shoulder wound.” A pause that had nothing to do with reading. “Greg, he’s-”

“I know, I know. Myc, he was at Baker Street.”

“What?” The tension in Mycroft’s voice was palpable.

“I didn’t really pay attention to him at first; I was focused on getting Sherlock’s help with the case. But he was there, just lingering in the background. But he didn’t seem… comfortable. At home. Not yet anyway,” he added, clenching his jaw. “Damn it. I can’t leave the case.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Myc.” Greg took a deep breath. “I love you, but you taking care of things when it comes to your brother can often make things worse.”

“Which is why I will be talking to Dr. Watson and not Sherlock. Don’t forget to eat something.”

And the call ended like that. Greg swore quietly and paced the room for a moment, juggling his mobile as he tried to figure out where and how Sherlock could have met Dr. Watson. He scrolled through his contacts until he reached the Hs. Granted, a good share of his contacts were under H.

_Was Sherlock at Bart’s yesterday?_

_Yeah. Had a go at a fresh body. Why?_

_Did he meet anyone there?_

_Actually, I think so. Sort of brushed me off, so I didn’t get a chance to say hello. Nice enough looking guy._

Greg sucked air between his teeth. Molly sent him another message, answering his next question before he even had a chance to ask.

_Alpha, though._

_Catch a name?_

_No, sorry._

_Thanks._

_Mike Stamford introduced them._

_Cheers._

He texted Mycroft what information he’d gathered, though he had a feeling that Mycroft had gathered that much and more in the time it took for Greg and Molly’s exchange to occur. Beyond the closed door, he heard Anderson calling for him. So he did his best to leave things to Mycroft and went back to work.

 

When Greg was told that an anonymous tip pinpointed Sherlock’s location—and that of the killer—he didn’t have time to question it. When he arrived to find the serial killer dead and a rather calm and collected duo of detective and doctor, he had all the time in the world for suspicion.

“Fix things, did you?” Greg muttered to Mycroft.

“I misjudged him,” Mycroft said, nodding to John Watson’s distant back.

Greg arched a brow and looked at Mycroft. “Not something that happens very often.”

“Which is why I believe my brother finds this man so interesting. He seems incredibly ordinary at first, yet, upon further observation, he’s anything but.”

“Mycroft, he’s an alpha. I hate to stereotype, but if he’s around the next time Sherlock goes into heat—god knows what your brother’s done to fuck himself up. And how that could affect someone living in close quarters with him.”

“I’m quite aware, Gregory. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“You and me both.”

“But.”

“What?”

“We do owe him our gratitude.”

Greg frowned. “For what?”

“For saving Sherlock’s life tonight.”

“I know Watson was our ‘anonymous tip,’ but by the time we got here, the cabbie was already- Oh.” Greg’s head whipped back down the street, but of course the pair was long gone. “Are you sure?”

“There were powder burns on his fingers.”

“Christ.”

“I think we can allow a little leniency. For now at least.”

Greg crossed his arms, staring back down the empty side street. “I still don’t like it. I don’t trust him.”

“Dr. Watson? Or my brother?” Mycroft chuckled dryly when Greg shot him an annoyed look. “We’ll keep an eye on them both. Don’t worry.” He kissed Greg’s temple and told him not to stay at the office too late with paperwork. Then he ducked into his car, and Anthea—now refined, calm, exact—followed after, eyes on her phone. Greg asked about it once, and Mycroft said she was probably playing solitaire half the time. Neither of them expected the joke to be taken seriously.

 

When Greg spotted John in a pub two months after the case with the cabbie, he couldn’t resist temptation. He texted Mycroft he’d be running a few minutes late and ducked into the pub. It was too good to discover a vacant seat next to John at the bar. He didn’t even try to feign coincidence.

He ordered himself a pint and a refill for John. The good doctor gave him a measured look, but said nothing.

“Any interesting cases?” Greg said while he waited for his drink.

“Yeah, though I’m guessing this is all niceties and Detective Inspector Dimmock filled you in about everything.”

Greg smirked. “Probably.” His drink arrived and he took a long draught.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“I don’t trust you.”

“So I guess you and Sherlock’s brother are a match made, huh?”

“So Sherlock told you about us? Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I suppose it was you who tipped him off that night, during The Study in Pink?”

“Study in Pink?”

John shrugged and took a drink. “Had to call it something. I’m supposed to keep a blog. I have to admit, it’s a much more interesting blog now that I live with Sherlock Holmes, the World’s Only Consulting Detective.”

“And the world’s biggest prat.”

John laughed. “Yeah, he’s that too.”

“Why are you supposed to keep a blog?”

“Therapist. She says it’s therapeutic.”

“Bloke with a therapist. Yeah, that definitely makes me feel easy about you living with Sherlock.”

“Oh, you know, I think they’re pretty keen on us PTSD folks getting treated.” John gave him a sidelong look. “And what about you? You said you’d only known Sherlock for five years, didn’t even know him. And the man clearly does not get on with his brother. So why go harassing the new guy?”

“I said I’d worked with him for five years.” Greg turned his seat and leaned back so he was facing the rest of the pub. “I’ve known Sherlock longer than I haven’t. He’s like my own kid brother I suppose. I worry about him.”

“Constantly,” John muttered. “That’s what Mycroft said, before I even knew who the hell he was.”

“Well we do—worry about him that is. And Sherlock isn’t the most open of fellows, so yeah, sometimes we go snooping. And sometimes we harass the new guy.” Greg swivelled in his seat and leaned just slightly toward John. He lowered his voice to say, “Especially when the new guy is an alpha was PTSD and illegally owns a military-issued Browning L9A1.”

John didn’t come back with a witty retort, nor did he flinch. Instead, after a moment of contemplative quiet, he laughed. “Yeah, I guess that doesn’t paint me in the best light.”

They drank in mutual silence, draining their glasses and starting on the next.

“Lestrade-”

“What do you know about him?”

John blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been living with him for a couple months now, right? What have you learned about him?”

John shrugged. “Aside from the brilliant prick bit? Not much. He’s brilliant, mad, and completely unpredictable.” A slow smile appeared. “I see why that mixed with PTSD and gun might bode poorly.”

Greg pushed away his barely "touched second pint. “He’s got a file at the Met.” He paused, but John remained collected. “If you ever want to look at it, come by my office.”

“That can’t possibly be legal.”

“I’m all but married to the British government. I’m really not worried.” He got up and patted John on the shoulder. “Besides, I don’t make a habit of bending the rules.”

John stiffened. “But you would for me?”

“No, not in the least. But I would for Sherlock.”

 

It didn’t even take a full week for John Watson to show up. His secretary said uncertainly that Dr. Watson had been invited.

“Thanks, let him in.” Greg pulled out Sherlock’s file from where he had stashed it in the recesses of his drawers after his encounter with John at the pub. The fact that John was showing up after all didn’t bode well.

John looked about the office with a forced air of the unimpressed. He took the seat across from Greg without being invited.

Greg slid the file toward him, but John just slid it right back.

“You said you’ve known him for a while?”

“Seventeen years.” Greg left the file halfway between them.

“Tell me about him.” John leaned back in the chair. “I don’t want to read a clinical report about his misdemeanours or felonies or whatever is in there.” He waved to the folder. “I was an army surgeon for eight years. ‘Twenty-two, Caucasian, male; shrapnel in the left ventricle’ does nothing to prepare you for the kid dying under your hands and still dreaming of a way back home in anything but a wooden box.” John leaned forward, pushed the folder to the side, and sat back. “So tell me about him.”

That definitely surprised Greg. He looked at the folder and then at John again. “He was fourteen the first time I met him. Mycroft was twenty-one. I crashed my motorbike in front of the Holmes’ estate when I was barely twenty-five.”

 

_I was sitting on the toilet seat, a young man named Mycroft seated on the edge of the tub facing me. Mycroft was carefully wrapping my skinned knee with gauze when a boy’s voice spoke from behind me. With my back to the door and my neck too stiff to move, I could only hear the exchange._

_“Shall I call for an ambulance?”_

_“No, Sherlock. He doesn’t need a- SHERLOCK.” Mycroft dropped what he was doing and circumnavigated me with surprising swiftness. “What the hell is wrong with you?”_

_I turned my waist just enough to see Mycroft ushering an adolescent boy from the doorway. I didn’t see much, but, from what I could gather, the boy was stark naked. There was some angry whispering around the corner, followed by the boy shouting, “YOU FAT IDIOT.” The next sound was of bare feet running down the hall and a door slamming somewhere._

_“I apologise for my brother,” Mycroft said as he returned to doctor me._

_“It’s not a problem. I’m intruding.” I gave him what I hoped was my kindest smile, the sort of smile you give to the elderly. Months later, as we lay in bed together in the stifling summer heat, he would tell me how much he loved that smile, that he fell in love with it before he ever loved me._

_Sherlock, I would later learn, was an oddity in the Holmes family, already odd in its own right. He was the first omega in four generations, whether by prejudice or coincidence I never knew. Mycroft told me this was why their parents were abroad that Christmas, leaving the two boys to themselves in the large house. It was Sherlock’s second heat, and their parents were ignorant and wished to stay ignorant about how to deal with an omega child. So they left their eldest in charge, telling him he could look after the house for a couple weeks and all he had to do was make sure Sherlock didn’t get into any serious trouble. Thus it became Mycroft’s responsibility to learn about adolescent omegas and their heats and how to look after them._

_Mycroft was bitter toward his parents, but he never held any ill feelings toward Sherlock. Not in the beginning at least. Unfortunately, Sherlock could not be convinced that Mycroft’s persistent scowling during the Christmas hols was not toward him. Though always distant due to their age gap, that was truly when their relationship began to sour._

_A few days after my collision with the pavement, I drove by the house again. I could pretend to say I didn’t know why, that I was drawn there by some invisible, unidentifiable force, but that would be complete bullshit. I was fascinated by the Holmes brothers, Sherlock as much as Mycroft._

_Sherlock was staring out an open window on the third story. I never knew if he was watching for something, or just watching, or maybe just thinking. But he saw me and shouted down to ask what I was doing._

_“Just passing.”_

_“You’re lying.” He said it flatly. Then he slammed the window shut and disappeared from view._

_A moment later, before I’d collected my wits enough to leave, he was opening the front door. This time he was fully clothed. He waved me in and walked away, leaving the front door wide open._

_Sherlock was a kid, eleven years my junior, so naturally I fell to talking with Mycroft more than him. But we did have our own conversations, often when Mycroft declared he was too busy with coursework to socialise and Sherlock would appear instead and invite me in in Mycroft’s stead._

_Sherlock talked about a lot of things. He said he hated his parents as much as they hated him, which sounds exactly as it should coming from his mouth. He insulted Mycroft regularly, both within and without earshot of his brother. I learned about his aspirations; unlike most people, he didn’t aspire to a profession. He wanted to learn and study and observe the world for all its worth. He wanted to solve the great mysteries of physics and chemistry, naming the greatest minds in the fields and declaring how stupid each one was. When I gave him an endearing smile, he scowled and proved he knew more about biology and mathematics than most uni graduates. Then he would stomp away and sulk; and I would be left alone in a room in a house where I didn’t belong, among two geniuses I didn’t know._

_I stopped visiting when their parents came home, Sherlock returned to boarding school, Mycroft to Oxford, and it was four months until I saw them again. Mycroft and I wrote sporadically to one another. Then, in June, I received a letter saying his parents would be gone for a month, starting in a week’s time. It gave no direct invitation to visit, but it was more than obvious that was the meaning of the letter._

_I all but spent that month at the Holmes estate. Sherlock had turned fifteen in the interim, and Mycroft turned twenty-two at the end of June. Even Sherlock, misanthropic though he was around his brother, celebrated with us. I was barely earning enough for a dingy flat in town, food, and my bike’s upkeep, so I could hardly afford anything worthwhile. Instead, my gift to Mycroft was a ride on my motorbike._

_We didn’t even so much as kiss that day, but it was most likely that little excursion that made it clear to both of us how we felt about one another. And, if it was clear to us, it was clear to Sherlock._

_I crashed in one of their guest rooms that night after far too much wine. I woke up around two or so to piss, and when I came back to the room, Sherlock was standing by the bed._

_“Alright?” I knew he was about to go through another heat, and I knew how much he loathed them even then. “Sherlock?”_

_“He’ll hurt you,” Sherlock said. His voice was quiet and almost empty of emotion. Almost._

_“Who will?”_

_“Mycroft. You can’t trust him. He can’t be trusted.”_

_I didn’t know what to say. At the time, I wasn’t even fully aware of what was going on between me and Mycroft. Sherlock walked past me and back to his room. I didn’t ask him about that night, and he didn’t bring it up again until after Mycroft broke up with me many months later._

_But during Sherlock’s next heat, early in October, I received a long letter from Mycroft informing me that he would in town for some time, as Sherlock had been seriously injured and sent home._

_I went to the house that night, scaling the makeshift ladder of an old trellis we had shifted that summer. Its new location allowed me access to a first-story eave right under his window. It couldn’t have been more ideal._

_Mycroft told me with a blank face what had really happened: Sherlock had somehow gotten hold of a substantial amount of heroin and, in near-hallucinatory state, tried to carve out his insides. Namely, his uterus._

_He was stabilised, and for once the Holmes parents were being almost proper parents and staying at the private hospital with him. So I hadn’t needed to sneak in after all._

_Their parents took Sherlock out of school and hired private tutors to instruct him for the rest of the year. Mycroft had to go back to Oxford, so I promised I would look in on Sherlock as much as I could. It didn’t help that Sherlock wouldn’t look at me. But he wasn’t looking at anyone those days._

_We barely spoke after that, until eight months later when Mycroft dumped me. The last thing Sherlock said to me for ten years was in a letter. A note really. I found it taped to the door of my flat._

Sentiment has never been the Holmes’ strong suit. SH

 

Telling John about his past with the Holmes brothers drained Greg in a way he hadn’t anticipated. So when Mycroft rang him after work inviting him over for supper, Greg declined.

“I think I’m just going to grab takeaway and crash. Pretty tired right now. Sorry, love.”

“No need to apologise. However, your tone indicates something more than physical or even mental exhaustion.”

What should he tell Mycroft? That he was emotionally drained? It seemed more than a little harsh. “I’m fine.”

“This is definitely the sort of ‘fine’ I should pry into, isn’t it?”

Greg actually smiled against the receiver. “Maybe, but can your prying wait until tomorrow?”

“If you insist, I suppose I can be quietly impatient.”

“Thanks, love. Tomorrow night, supper. As long as neither of us gets whisked off to an international crisis or multiple homicides, it’s a date.” They said goodnight, and Greg dragged himself home.

 

They actually managed to keep their date for once. Usually something came up in one of their jobs that made them postpone over and over for weeks before they finally gave up, ordered takeaway, watched some crap movie, drank too much wine, and fell into bed together. Sometimes without the movie, wine, or even food on occasion.

But this time, Mycroft had a meal ready at seven. He told Greg he had instructed Anthea to threaten anyone who called on him in the next twelve hours however she best saw fit, and that he should only be interrupted if nuclear war was imminent.

When their plates were clean, as they sipped one of Mycroft’s non-too-inexpensive wines, Mycroft said quite abruptly, “I’d like you to move in with me.”

Greg stopped with the rim of the glass against his lips. He set it down slowly without taking that drink and tried for a frantic moment to remember how words worked. “Where did this come from?”

Mycroft pushed his plate back and folded his hands on the table. It was how he dealt with things close to the heart when he was feeling nervous: reverting to a more formal stance, giving himself some kind of familiar footing. “While it’s been on my mind with growing frequency for some time, my wish for us to live together was solidified yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“It’s obvious you were distressed about something, and I was willing to accept you had rather not discussed it in the moment. However, I still had the strong desire to have you here, words or no words. I wanted to at least be a physical presence for you, even if I could not be a verbal or emotional one.”

Greg ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t considered the possibility of living together; he didn’t even know that had been a possibility. Everything had been so wonderful over the last three years. Sure, there were rocky moments, especially early on, but what couples didn’t have those? But he had never considered there was more than what they had. “Myc…”

“I could quote to you the percentage of your leisure time you already spend here, or point out that you have three spare sets of clothes in my closet. But that isn’t important. The numbers, they’re not important. I was your presence here, constantly, whether or not you yourself are in the house.”

Greg smiled, a ridiculous warmth filling him. “You sure know how to romance a guy.”

Mycroft watched him expectantly, hopefully. “Then?”

“Yeah, I’ll move in.”

Mycroft looked near ready to leap across the table, so Greg got up and held out his hand. Mycroft took it and stood, cupped his free hand on Greg’s cheek, and kissed his forehead.

After a moment, Greg’s joy subsided and made room for a more melancholy feeling. “I need to talk about yesterday.” And need was the right word; he certainly didn’t want to discuss it.

They went to the lounge and sat together on the sofa. Greg told Mycroft about how his intentions to test John Watson’s character turned into a reliving of the past. Most importantly, he told Mycroft the things he’d never told him before: Sherlock’s words the night of Mycroft’s twenty-second birthday, and the note he received after Mycroft left for London.

The silence after he finished speaking stretched uncomfortably, though Mycroft did not stop stroking his hair. Then, “His observation isn’t inaccurate. My parents continued to fail spectacularly at the more empathetic side of childrearing, as you know. It was inevitable their children’s emotional growth was stunted. You had to suffer the consequences of this first hand.”

Greg rubbed his thumb over the back of Mycroft’s other hand, which he had been holding loosely for some time. “So did you.”

“And how did Dr. Watson react?”

“He just said ‘alright’ and left.” Greg shifted so he could face Mycroft. “Part of me wants to trust him, it really does. But I can’t accept it, not yet.”

Mycroft nodded. “He certainly has an impeccable record. In his second year in Afghanistan, he attacked a superior officer for attempting to take advantage of a local. But, as Dr. Watson himself so aptly pointed out, a file can, in reality, tell you very little about an individual’s true character.”

“Though that anecdote bodes well.”

“I suppose so.”

“Myc, if he ends up being someone we can trust around Sherlock-”

“Then both our minds will be a little more at ease knowing Sherlock is actually being looked after by someone more capable than a doting old landlady.”

Greg chuckled and leaned back into Mycroft’s chest. “Mrs. Hudson’s alright.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, but she’s hardly one to be dashing about after my little brother in an attempt to keep him from destroying himself.” Mycroft kissed the top of Greg’s head. “I’m sorry you had to relive those memories, Gregory, but I think it may have a beneficial outcome.”

“I hope so,” Greg murmured, and they fell into a comfortable, if thoughtful, silence.

 

Even though he hadn’t been on the case—the one John Watson was calling “The Blind Banker”—Greg recognised the yellow spray paint’s poignancy.

“Shit,” Sally said in a breath.

They had just left a crime scene down an alley that was impossible to reach except for by foot, and completely out of view of the street. Greg’s car sat parked at the curb, every window sprayed with yellow. Most of it was just scribbling, but across the windshield was sprayed one word: QUEER.

“We’ll pull the CCTV-”

“No.”

Sally turned to him. “Greg-”

“Going after the punks who did this won’t make anything better. Just ignore it. I’ll get it towed and have it washed.”

Sally didn’t argue and went to speak to one of the officers about getting a lift back to the Met, while simultaneously scolding him for not keeping an eye on the street. Greg let her for the moment, though he made a mental note to apologise to the officer later on her behalf.

He pulled out his mobile and called Mycroft. He went through Anthea, instead of the direct line Mycroft had given him. No need to worry him if he didn’t need to.

“Afternoon.”

“Evening, actually.”

“How time flies when you’re trying to subdue foreign delegates.”

Greg forced a dry chuckle.

“Everything alright?”

“More or less. So you’ve been in the office all day?”

“As usual. Why do you ask?”

“Just… checking.”

“Gregory.”

“It’s nothing. I’ll tell you at home, yeah?”

Mycroft paused, probably debating whether to let it slide or not. “If you insist.”

“I do. See you tonight, love.”

“Until then.”

As soon as they hung up, Greg called again. This time, he told Anthea not to put him through. He gave her a brief description of what happened. “Just, keep an extra eye out for him today, for me.”

“Sure, Greg.” She had dropped her usually distracted tone, which didn’t make Greg feel any better.

“I’ll tell him at home. Don’t need him going crazy pulling CCTV feeds instead of keeping the next war at bay.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Anthea.”

Sally was waiting patiently behind the driver seat of one of the police cars. Greg walked over and slid in, still fiddling with his phone.

“You sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, just-”

The radio crackled to life. “An explosion on Baker Street has been reported. Repeat, an explosion on Baker Street-”

Greg snatched it up. “This is Lestrade. What’s the building’s address?”

“Unconfirmed, sir.”

“Fuck. Sally.”

Sally gave a curt nod, flipped on the siren, and put the car into drive.

 

There was a very subjective feeling of relief when Greg saw the explosion had been across the street from 221. It was immediately swept away when he saw the windows of 221B had been blown in.

“Get me a paramedic!” he shouted as he launched himself from the car and toward the front door. He opened the door and took the stairs in lunges until he reached the door of Sherlock and John’s flat.

Mrs. Hudson was in hysterics beside a body. Unquestionable who it was by the debris-covered dressing gown. Greg fell to his knees beside Sherlock.

“Come on, mate. Wake up.” He felt for a pulse, found one, and shouted again for a paramedic, not really sure if anyone heard him.

But Sherlock started moving and coughing. Greg helped him up slowly and immediately sat him in one of the armchairs.

“Are you hurt? Anything broken?”

“You don’t need to mother hen me, Lestrade,” Sherlock said.

A paramedic finally showed up, and Greg ordered her to check Sherlock for concussion.

“I’m not concussed. My faculties are all quite intact, though some may be sore in the morning.”

“Shut up. She’s going to check you for concussion whether you like it or not, so shut up and do what she says.”

Sherlock looked rather surprised by Greg’s tone, and maybe it was that that made him give in to the examination.

“Was John here?”

“No. Left a little before the explosion.”

“Thank god.”

The paramedic turned to Greg. “He’s fine, far as I can tell. It’d be best if someone could keep an eye on him for the next twenty-four hours, just to be safe.”

“Of course, thanks.” Greg suddenly remembered his duty as an officer and asked, “Anyone in the explosion?”

“No. Abandoned, according to preliminary observations.”

“Thanks.” Greg nodded across the room to where Mrs. Hudson was still fretting. “Check her out as well. Get her to make a cuppa or something.”

The paramedic gave him a quick smile before turning to the landlady. “Ma’am? I’d like you to come downstairs so I can check your vitals.”

After a brief, half-hearted attempt to assure the paramedic she was fine, Mrs. Hudson obliged and led the way to her kitchen.

“You should call John,” Greg suggested, the words bitter in his mouth.

“And interrupt his futile attempt to seduce his latest girlfriend with self-pity? No thank you.”

Greg didn’t ask. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Aside from the multitude of bruises no doubt forming across my body, yes. In fact, I’m quite interested about this explosion.”

Greg held up a hand. “No, not a chance. You stay out of it unless I ask for your help.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I see Mycroft has dulled your sense of adventure.”

“Then I’ll have to thank him.” He stuffed his hands in his coat. “I should probably go down, being the chief officer on the scene.”

Sherlock gestured grandly to the door. “Then by all means.”

“Don’t be a stubborn prat. Text if you need anything. I mean it.”

“I’m sure you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Sherlock stood and shook out his dressing gown. “I think I’d rather like to shower, thank you.”

Greg shook his head, but obliged and left the flat. Down the hall on the ground floor, he could hear Mrs. Hudson wearing out the paramedic’s ear.

 

Mycroft was pacing up and down the hallway when Greg finally came home. Of course he’d heard about the explosion. And of course he couldn’t just call Sherlock, or Greg if he was around Sherlock. The Holmes brothers didn’t work that way.

“He’s fine.”

Mycroft’s shoulders sagged at once.

“Bit bruised, but fine.”

“Accident or foul play?”

Greg frowned. “Accident, we think. Gas line explosion. Why would it be foul play?”

“Sherlock has… enemies, I assure you.”

“Well yeah, he’s a right prat, but big enough enemies to do this?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m honestly not sure.”

Greg took hold of his shoulders and rubbed his hands up and down Mycroft’s arms. “It’s alright. He’s fine. Even got a paramedic to check him out.”

“Are you sure that qualifies as ‘fine’?” Mycroft arched a brow.

“Maybe not,” Greg laughed. “I’ll pop in again tomorrow and check.”

“No, I will.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“No.”

Greg nodded. “I understand.” He hugged Mycroft tight. 

After a moment of centring themselves in each other’s arms, Mycroft slid away, his arms lingering on Greg’s waist. “Where’s your car?”

“Oh.” To be perfectly honest, Greg had entirely forgotten about the incident with the spray paint, even though he’d had to get a cab home. “It was vandalised. Just paint on the windows. I’m picking it up tomorrow.”

“Vandalised?”

“I don’t always work in the nice parts of town,” Greg said. He didn’t want to get to the crux, though he knew he should. It probably fell under their whole honesty pact.

“So your car was a random target?”

Then again, Mycroft was usually able to pinpoint the necessary detail. “No,” Greg sighed. “It wasn’t random. They wrote ‘queer’ on the windshield. And,” he hesitated, but Mycroft was patient, despite the anger that had suddenly flared in his eyes and the fact that his hands had fallen into fists at his sides. “They used yellow spray paint. I’m pretty sure they meant for it to resemble what was used by the Chinese gang Sherlock and Dimmock tried to round up last week.

“So it was a death threat?”

“No! I don’t think so. Not an honest one. Just some prejudiced bastard. Look, I’m fine. So I have to get my windows scraped clean. So what? Reacting will probably just make things worse. Myc, don’t let it get to you.” He took Mycroft’s hands and brought them to his lips. “Please, let it go.”

Eventually Mycroft relented, though Greg wasn’t completely convinced he wouldn’t snoop around CCTV the next day.

But Greg had trouble himself letting it go. He lay awake in bed long after Mycroft had drifted off beside him. It’d be a pretty insane move to threaten the life of a detective-inspector, especially one whose partner worked an unknown position in Whitehall. Even an attempt on his life, though, would cause uproar. And it would risk destroying Mycroft’s veil of triviality to the average pedestrian.

Greg opened his eyes and stared hard at the dim ceiling. 

What if this wasn’t just prejudiced hatred? What if it was only made to look that way, and the target really was Mycroft? Not necessarily his life, but his efficiency due to his status a nonentity to the people? Maybe Greg ought to look at those CCTV tapes after all.

In the end, the tapes had to wait.

 

Every pore of Greg’s being was seeping a violent mix of rage, belated fear, and relief. The fact that Sherlock was sitting quite complacently in his armchair wasn’t helping Greg’s mood.

Sherlock sighed and folded his hands in his lap. “Are you going to say anything, Detective Inspector? Or are you going to continue to gape at me like that?”

Greg straightened his back and snapped his mouth shut. “You, Sherlock Holmes—for a genius, you’re a real idiot.”

In the background, from where John was hunched over on the sofa with a cuppa in both hands, came a soft chuckle.

“You didn’t even call in backup!”

“Unnecessary,” Sherlock said, flicking the comment away. “Actually, it would have been quite detrimental to the chances of our survival had we requested the presence of any law enforcement or political agents.”

Greg scowled. “From what you’ve—no, from what John’s told me, your chances of survival weren’t great to begin with.”

Sherlock sent a scowl to John, who politely ignored it by staring into his tea.

“And you won’t even file a report.”

“Again, it would only risk further endangerment. He doesn’t want any third parties involved.”

Greg crossed his arms. “And who is he?”

“This is the seventh time you’ve asked a variation of that question. Do you really anticipate a response now?”

“Damn it, Sherlock.”

“I can, however, assure you that bombings will stop.”

“How? How can you assure me of that?”

“Because I know him quite well.”

John spoke up quite clearly this time, “The whole thing didn’t last ten minutes.”

Without turning, Sherlock called over his shoulder, “And I deduced your entire history in seconds.”

John rolled his shoulders uncomfortably and turned back to his tea, this time taking a drink.

Greg, though, turned to John in hopes of some sort of result. “What about you? Will you at least come to the Yard and file a report? You were kidnapped and wrapped up in a homemade Semtex vest.”

The doctor and detective exchanged a glance, entirely excluding Greg’s presence for a moment. Greg didn’t like this silent form of communication they seemed to have developed.

“Nah,” John finally answered. “I’m alright. Eight years in Afghanistan, bullet in my shoulder—I think I’ll muddle through this.” He gave Greg an eerie grin and held up his mug in cheers.

“You’re both bloody mad,” Greg grumbled and headed for the door.

“And tell Mycroft to stop his prying as well,” Sherlock called after him. “It will only make things worse.”

 

The next few weeks felt unusually quiet. John went to New Zealand with his girlfriend a few days after the incident at the swimming pool, and Sherlock was nearly agreeable with whatever Greg brought him in terms of cases. Granted, he was his usual acerbic self during each one. Anderson and Sally took most of the brunt. Greg couldn’t figure out if that was Sherlock’s way of thanking him or spiting him.

On the domestic side of things, Mycroft was equally baffling. As far as Greg was aware, he wasn’t pressing either Sherlock or Greg for information. And he certainly seemed to have let the spray paint incident go.

The day before John was scheduled to come home, Greg received a text. It was one he hadn’t seen in three years, though the wording had changed.

_Out of patches. SH_

Greg looked at the calendar and counted back three months. Mid-January, meaning before John Watson ever came into the picture.

But why would Sherlock be texting Greg now? And hadn’t he been taking suppressants all this time? Unless something had gone awry with his supply.

Panicked thoughts flicked through his mind, one after another. It was still early in the evening, Mycroft was still at work—he could conceivably go check on Sherlock and be back before Mycroft. Not that he wouldn’t tell Mycroft, but Sherlock might appreciate at least some feigned attempt at secrecy on this.

Before he could make a decision, his phone chimed with another text.

_Disregard last message. SH_

Greg stared at his phone and sent, _No._

_It was intended for another individual. SH_

_John?_

_I don’t see how that is any of your business._

_He’s not even in the country. He won’t get your texts._ Not until tomorrow, when he disembarked his plane and turned on his phone and-

Greg started rapidly sending a paragraph-long text, but halfway through he realised there would be no arguing with Sherlock. Certainly not in this state.

So he went with his next course of action: he called Mycroft. “I need John’s flight itinerary for tomorrow.”

“That’s an interesting request,” Mycroft murmured, but Greg could already hear him typing away.

“Sherlock’s in heat. Full heat, I think.”

“He stopped the suppressants?”

“I don’t know. I think so.” Greg took a deep breath. “But I think he’s going to try and seduce John.”

Mycroft didn't question his conclusion. Greg might not have the Holmes’ knack for deduction, but he knew the Holmes brothers, and Mycroft knew that.

“What do you intend to do?”

“Intercept John before he has a chance to reach Baker Street. Hopefully at the airport.”

“I’ll send you Sarah Sawyer’s address and number as well, as a precaution.”

“You’re brilliant.”

 

Greg was at the airport an hour before John and Sarah’s flight arrived. He toyed with the possibility of using his professional status to bypass security and go straight to their gate, but instead settled for keeping an eye on customs. As it was, the flight’s arrival was late by twenty minutes.

As soon as he spotted the two, he strode over. Before John could say anything, Greg grabbed his arm with a quick apology to Sarah and dragged the doctor away.

“Hello to you too,” John grumbled, tearing his arm away once they had stopped walking.

“You can’t go to Baker Street. Not for another week.”

John frowned. “Aside from the obvious question of ‘why’, I just spent two weeks away from home. I’d really-”

“How blunt do you want me to be?”

“Well,” John said slowly, crossing his arms and taking an almost military stance. “I live with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Fair point.” Greg nodded. “Alright then, here it is: Sherlock’s going to try and seduce you.”

John’s stern expression broke into a wide grin. “Excuse me?”

“He’s in heat.”

“We’re both grown men, Greg. I think-”

“And you and I both know he does stupid shit when he’s depressed.”

John’s smile began to fade, rapidly.

“Add to that the difficult-to-restrain hormonal drive of oestrus.”

“I’m starting to get the picture. But why would—this—be the stupid thing?”

“Because he tried it on me once a few years ago. And—I’m sorry, John—but I’m not an alpha. You can have all the self-control in the world, but unless you’re taking suppressants yourself-”

“I get it, fine.” John glanced over to where Sarah was waiting awkwardly and gave Greg a scathing look. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

“Keeping you two from making a mistake? Yeah, I can see what you mean.”

“What am I going to tell Sarah?”

“The truth? At least the part about Sherlock being in heat. Christ, John, you were in the military. This is why alphas and omegas don’t share close quarters. You two are already rooted enough in one another’s lives. Your normal scents-”

“Yes, I am a doctor,” John snapped. “I do understand the biology, thanks.”

Greg backed off. “So you won’t go to Baker Street until I give you the OK?”

“Don’t have much choice, do I?” John shot him one last look, this one more of frustration than anger, and walked back over to Sarah.

 

Greg went every day to check on Sherlock, not that he could physically check on the madman without having projectiles aimed at his head. Mostly he got reports from Mrs. Hudson, as she was much safer if she snuck around picking up after Sherlock and leaving meals in the fridge. She insisted she didn’t mind, that her sister was quite the same way in her prime. Greg doubted anyone was as bad as Sherlock.

When Greg finally came round and found the scent of oestrus drastically diminished, he breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Hudson informed him that her tenant had presented himself clothed late that morning, standing in the threshold of her kitchen asking for biscuits.

Greg ventured upstairs and knocked on the door, calling out as gently as he could. He received a blunt, “PISS OFF,” which was a great improvement from projectiles, and left Baker Street with a mind at peace.

_He’s coming down. Still in metoestrus, but probably safe. Your call._

_Couldn’t have come at a better time._

Greg, though curious, didn’t bother John for elaboration. He went home and started supper, looking forward to giving the good news to Mycroft that evening.

 

Mycroft’s phone rang in the middle of the night. Greg lingered in half-sleep, waiting to see if he should say goodbye and expect to wake up in an empty bed. It wasn’t unusual for Mycroft to be called away at odd hours, not that Greg liked it. But they had managed to make it work so far.

But Mycroft, instead of going back to bed or kissing him and saying goodbye, shook Greg to full wakefulness.

“Sherlock’s in the hospital,” Mycroft said in his monotone voice that signalled something was very, very wrong.

Greg sprung up. “What happened?”

“Overdose.”

They dressed quickly and a car met them downstairs. Greg kept a careful eye on Mycroft, despite his own distressed mind. Mycroft was staring blankly out the window, but his hands were clenched on his trousers. Greg covered the nearest with his own hand and squeezed. Mycroft didn’t look at him, but he squeezed back.

It wasn’t hard to find Sherlock, since John’s shouting carried quite well in the would-have-been-quiet halls. When they made it to the room, they found the sounding board for John’s abuse was some pitiable nurse, who looked quite at a loss for what to do. Two security guards were trying to drag John out of the room, rather unsuccessfully.

“YOU SAVE HIM. YOU BRING HIM BACK. HE SAVED MY LIFE, SO YOU FUCKING SAVE HIS.”

“John!” Greg darted forward, squeezed John’s shoulder’s tight. “John, look at me. Look at me!”

John’s wild eyes started to find him, but they kept darting back to the nurse.

“John, would you look-”

Mycroft’s sharp voice interrupted, “Captain Watson.”

Something clicked in John’s eyes, and he swung his gaze over Greg’s shoulder to Mycroft.

“Stand down,” Mycroft said, quieter but just as crisply.

The fight began to drain from John, but only some of it.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Mycroft addressed the security guards. “He’ll be quite alright now.”

The guards looked uncertainly between themselves. So Greg took out his badge and gave them a firm dismissal. Then he steered John to a couple of seats, giving the innocent nurse a chance to escape any further onslaught.

“Tell us what happened,” Greg said quietly.

John looked between him and Mycroft. The guy had a crazy sense of loyalty to a man he’d known for barely three months. “I got home about an hour after you texted me. Went to check on him, he told me to piss off. Left him alone, figured it was for the best.”

“Seeing as he tried to throw several blunt, heavy objects at me this past week, I don’t blame you.”

“Few hours go by, same thing. A bit after midnight, I go one more time before turning in. He doesn’t answer. I threaten to break the door down. Doesn’t answer. So I do. And he’s- he’s- the fucking idiot’s passed out in his own vomit. And the goddamn needle’s still sticking out of his arm.” John’s hands fisted against his thighs, his entire body shaking.

“What did the doctor say?”

“He’s critical.” John shook his head. “They won’t tell me anything else. I’m not a relative, I’m not important.”

“It’s just policy,” Greg said quietly. He looked up at Mycroft.

“Yes, I think I’ll go have a chat with my brother’s doctor.”

Once Mycroft’s steps faded, Greg took John’s arm and urged him to his feet. “Let’s grab a coffee, yeah?”

Ten minutes later, they were seated in a near empty canteen with cheap hospital coffee in two foam cups.

“You don’t seem all that shaken,” John said quietly.

“I’m worried.”

“But not surprised.”

Greg shook his head.

“He’s done this before? Overdosed?”

“Yeah, though most of them he was still semi-conscious when he was brought in. This sounds like one of the worst.”

“And Mycroft?”

“Mycroft found him the first time. Five months after Sherlock was sent home for cutting open his own gut. Their parents were out, some sort of event for the well-to-do. Mycroft found Sherlock barely conscious in the tub, fully clothed and soaked to the bone. Amazing he didn’t drown.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

Greg shrugged. “He’s gotten through it before. Take it for what it’s worth. If it gives you hope, good. It’s about the only thing I’ve got to hang my own hope on.

Mycroft found them a little while later and told them what he had found out. Intravenous fluids and medicine, breathing support, being monitored closely.

“So jack shit,” John said. “That’s what you found out.”

“Dr. Watson.” Mycroft sighed, “John, there is nothing more to find out.”

“Prognosis?” John snapped.

“What one might expect,” Mycroft replied, his calm demeanour wavering.

John sneered and slid his chair back. “Lot of help you are.” He stormed away, his footsteps echoing dully in the large room.

Greg rose a little more slowly. He slipped his hand into Mycroft’s and squeezed it. “He’ll make it, Myc. He’s gotten through this before.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything. He just leaned his forehead against Greg’s shoulder and let out a shuddering breath.

 

Mycroft refused to stay overnight at the hospital. He said it wouldn’t only exacerbate Sherlock’s mood if he were to wake to find his older brother watching over him. Greg hated to admit it, even if it was only silently to himself, that Mycroft was probably right. Besides, there was John, and it was clear John had no plans to leave Sherlock’s side.

So they went home. Greg hadn’t thought the silence could be heavier than it had been on the way to the hospital, but he was proved wrong on the trip back. They went into the house, upstairs, into the bedroom, and undressed all in silence.

In the dim light, Greg caught Mycroft’s eyes from across the bed. Mycroft looked tired in a way far beyond physical exhaustion. Tired and old, older than he should have. As if every year had, in the last hour, gained the weight of two, and now they collectively pulled at the lines of his skin.

Greg kneeled on the bed and held his hands out. Mycroft went to them as if pulled there, and he moulded into Greg’s arms and against his chest. Then Mycroft’s mouth found Greg’s collarbone, and he kissed it. He kissed higher, slowly, forming a trail to his shoulder.

“Myc, maybe now isn’t the best time-”

Mycroft slid back just enough to look at Greg straight. “I… Gregory.” There was a plea in his voice. Not for sex, not for answers. Just for Greg, for the comfort he could only find here, with this man. Rarely was Mycroft Holmes at a loss for words; rarely did Mycroft Holmes expose his vulnerabilities. And he could be so vulnerable, perhaps as only Greg knows.

Greg cupped Mycroft’s face and kissed him softly. He kissed his brow and each eyelid and his lips again. Then he eased Mycroft back onto the bed and stretched out on top of him, grounding him with flesh and warmth and Greg’s breath hot on his neck.

There was a painful moment of separation as Greg retrieved the lube. He squeezed out a portion for each of them, and they rolled onto their sides to face each other. Greg slipped his thigh under Mycroft’s sack and between his legs, and Mycroft curled an arm under Greg’s neck and grasped the base of his skull and pulled him close enough to kiss, open-mouthed and desperate. There were tears there Greg didn’t comment on, as usual, though these weren’t the usual kind.

They focused on their own erections at first, keeping contact with legs and mouths and their free hands. Once they’re both hard and burning, Mycroft pulled back and rolled onto his other side. He rubbed the extra lube between his thighs and scissored them open for Greg. Greg pulled their bodies close, pressing his cock hard against Mycroft’s sack, and those thighs closed tight around him. Greg groaned deep in his chest and thrusted. Mycroft’s moan was quiet and mixed with a half-subdued whimper.

Greg slid an arm under Mycroft and wrapped it across his chest. He curled his other hand tight around Mycroft’s cock and pressed a kiss to his back. “It’s me, Myc,” he whispered. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

Mycroft shuddered and squeezed his thighs tighter. Greg moved his hips and hand together, and Mycroft wrapped both arms around the one clamped over his heart and lungs. His crying was soft, intermingled with moans and whimpers. Greg didn’t hold back, didn’t draw things out. They both needed this now.

When Mycroft came in Greg’s hand, his thighs convulsed tight around Greg’s prick. A few quick thrusts in that hot, tight space, heavy balls pressing down on his cock, and Greg came too. He buried his face into the back of Mycroft’s neck as he did, and he could feel his own tears and shuddering sobs as orgasm washed through him, only to ebb away and leave him raw and hollow.

 

John texted in the morning that Sherlock was conscious and his mental faculties were, though slightly lethargic, intact.

“Go,” Mycroft said, setting his mobile back on the nightstand.

Greg continued to run his fingers lightly down Mycroft’s shoulder. He leaned forward and kissed his shoulder. “You should come, too.”

“My presence would only exacerbate his condition.”

“Myc.” He slid his arm under Mycroft’s arm and folded it across the other man’s torso. “He’s your brother and he almost got himself killed. Even Sherlock-”

“Don’t pretend, Gregory. You know as well as anyone that I am the last person Sherlock would want to see right now. Jim Moriarty would cheer him up more than I would right now.”

“Well, we always knew psychopaths were the way to your brother’s heart.”

“Go see him. For my sake.”

“For yours and mine.” Greg kissed his shoulder again. “I won’t tell him you send your love.”

 

Greg looked through the narrow window to check if Sherlock was sleeping, not wanting to wake him if he was. Instead, he found the madman quite awake and alert, talking animatedly with John.

He couldn’t hear anything, but he could see just fine. And he saw Sherlock smiling, the kind of smile he wondered if he’d ever seen before on this particular man. Not self-righteous, condescending, cynical—warm. It was warm. And it was directed wholly on John Watson.

 

It was half past nine when Greg came home. He called out of work for the morning, hoping he might get a couple more hours of sleep in first. He was surprised to find Mycroft just sitting down at the kitchen table with breakfast.

“Alright?”

“Decided to take the day off.”

Greg felt Mycroft’s brow with the back of his hand. “You’re not feverish.”

“Funny. I am capable of staying out of the office for more than eight hours.”

Greg chuckled and went to make himself tea.

“How is he?”

“Fine. I’m assuming.”

“You’re assuming?”

“I didn’t talk to him. Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Mycroft turned in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Interrupt what?”

Greg leaned back on the counter. “I wish you could’ve seen his face, Myc. He looked downright happy. The way normal people look happy.”

“Doing what?”

“Talking. Just talking. With John.”

Mycroft frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Greg wouldn’t let him.

“I know, I know. And I’m not saying John’s getting his free pass. But, god, Myc. I think he’s it.”

“He’s what?”

“Sherlock’s… I don’t know. ‘Cure’ isn’t the right word. But I think as long as he’s got John Watson, he’s going to be alright.”

“He wasn’t ‘alright’ twelve hours ago.”

Greg tossed his teabag and took it to the table. “Because we were stupid enough to keep John from him. We thought it would be for the best, but I think that’s what drove him over the edge this time ‘round.”

“I don’t mean to imply that I don’t trust you, Gregory, but you make it sound like Dr. Watson is Sherlock’s newest addiction.”

Greg shrugged. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s the drug Sherlock needs. I don’t know how to describe it. But my gut tells me that John Watson is what’s going to keep Sherlock Holmes as sane and healthy as he could ever be.”

Mycroft shook his head and stared down at his plate.

“I know.” Greg reached out and wrapped a hand around Mycroft’s. “He’s your brother. Hell, he’s practically my brother. And it’s hard to trust him with anyone, especially himself. But I think John could be really, really good for him.

“I hope you’re right, Gregory. I sincerely hope you’re right.”

Greg lifted his hand and kissed it. “Come on. Let’s go back to bed. I’ll make us a proper brunch in a couple hours.” They discarded untouched tea and toast and went upstairs. 

As Greg was disrobing, he caught an already nude Mycroft staring at him. When Mycroft saw he’d been caught, he let out a wistful sigh. “I should start going to the gym.”

Greg laughed and kicked away his trousers and pants. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re perfect.”

Mycroft’s cheeks pinked, though he kept his voice steady. “You’re older than me-”

“By four years.”

“-and in far better shape.”

“I’m a cop, Myc. I have to be in shape. Half the time I’m chasing murder suspects.”

“And the other half after my brother.”

Greg smirked. “Precisely. Besides.” He rested his hands on Mycroft’s hips and tugged him forward. “I like you just as you are.” He bent his head forward and kissed the curve of Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft leaned his head out of the way. “Just like this?”

“Perfect,” Greg whispered against his skin and nipped gently.

“Gregory.” Mycroft ran his hands up Greg’s torso.

“Hm?”

He rested his palms on Greg’s chest. “I just like saying it.”

“Ah. That’s good, because I like hearing it.” Greg kissed Mycroft’s jaw before pulling his head back and smiling. “But only from you.” He brought a hand up and ran his thumb across Mycroft’s lips. “Only from this mouth.”

Mycroft gently bit the tip of Greg’s thumb. “I’ll deport anyone else who utters it.”

Greg chuckled. He traced the line to the corner of Mycroft’s mouth and kissed him. Somewhere along the way they crawled onto the bed, lying face-to-face, then face-to-back, each in turn. They took moments like these when they could, when they had the time to be slow and delicate about things. Retracing old lines, remembering where moles grew and veins split, leaving new handprints over the old, layering on another memory.

Sometimes it was simple appreciation, and afterward they would hold each other and sleep or get out of bed and get on with the day. That morning, there were more kisses, more touches that left them both hard. Mycroft retrieved a bottle of lube from the nightstand and they each took a portion. First they rubbed each other’s erection slick, still reaching with lips and tongues to taste one another, whether on mouths or shoulders or necks.

They gathered their cocks together and each wrapped a hand around them. Hips beginning to roll, their hands found a mutual speed quickly. They were well-revised and well-rehearsed by now, and today would be a slow one. They were in no rush, had nowhere to be or hours of sleep to catch up on. Their fingers and cocks began at a languid pace, at first more about feeling than rutting.

But heat unfurled in them both, and slow rolling hips became thrusting pelvises. Hands tightened, moans travelled from one mouth to the other, and they cried out each other’s name with strangled breaths when they came.

Greg took his hand away first, intent on digging up the box of tissues somewhere nearby. But—and maybe it was the lack of sleep and the dissipating anxiety from last night—he caught himself staring at his soiled hand.

“This is us,” he said in a hushed voice.

Mycroft blinked through his tears. “Huh?”

“Right here. Mixed together, inseparable.”

“To be wiped off and tossed in a rubbage bin,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg shook himself out of the bizarre thought and turned over to find the tissues. When they were cleaned up, he pulled the covers up.

“Do you really believe that?” Mycroft said in a peculiar tone. Had it been anyone else, Greg would have thought it almost sounded sad. But Mycroft wasn’t so simple.

“Believe what?”

“You and I, inseparable? Or was that the oxytocin speaking?”

Greg kissed the tip of Mycroft’s nose. “We should take a holiday.”

“Where?”

“The beach? Or maybe just a nice lake.”

“I believe Father will be going abroad in July.”

“That big house to ourselves? Whatever will we do?”

“Oh, I think we could keep ourselves entertained.” Mycroft grinned.

Greg smiled right back at him. “As long as it’s sunny.”

“Why?”

“I miss your freckles.” He brushed his fingertips across Mycroft’s pale, sparsely dotted shoulder.

“I thought you said you like what you have.”

“I do. I like it now. I’ll like it with more freckles. I’ll like it with wrinkles and hairy moles and a bald head.” Greg watched as Mycroft’s eyes—his entire face—softened, and his body relaxed. “Yeah, I meant it.”

“Alright. July, then.”

“Make sure they know to stop all the wars for a couple weeks.”

“And you tell all your murderers to take some time off.”

“No, I’ll just have Sherlock sit in for me.”

“The paperwork might kill him.”

They both broke into laughter that was closer to the giggle of young boys than the hearty chuckles of grown men.

Mycroft settled first, his frown returning. “You really think he’ll be alright with John?”

“We won’t know if we don’t give it—them—a chance. But yeah, I think he will.”

Mycroft nodded, perhaps finally satisfied, or as much as his natural scepticism would allow.

In the quiet of late morning—as quiet as London would ever get with most of the city in school or at work—Greg and Mycroft curled up closer with glancing touches and soft kisses, so near to one another they could only breathe the air from each other’s lungs.


End file.
